Sailor Boy
by BeBopALula
Summary: The adventures and trials of Anthony Hope, from his often-unhappy youth to his daring rescue of the killer Sweeney Todd to his troubled courtship of Johanna Barker. Warnings inside. Reviews are much appreciated.
1. Labor

_Summary: Some scenes from the life of Anthony Hope, eternal optimistic and sailor boy extraordinaire._

_Warnings: Mentions of rape in later chapters, along with one scene where it actually happens. It's not graphic, but still. There's some death and nonsexual violence, too, but not more than there is in the movie. _

_Disclaimer: Own Sweeney Todd and/or its characters? Me? How delightfully absurd!_

**Chapter One: Labor**

Portsmouth, England, 1841

"Anthony!"

Anthony Hope closed his eyes. He wanted just a few more seconds of peace, a few more seconds to dream about his future life. Someday, he would see the world and all its wonders. London, he figured, would be a good start. In all his fourteen years, he had never left Portsmouth.

"Anthony! Anthony!"

Someday, he would be a sailor.

"Anthony! Come quick!"

He tore himself from his reverie. Yet again, he found himself sitting on the wooden bench outside his crowded, dirty home. A parade of pigs marched before his eyes, grunting and squealing. No doubt they were on their way to the slaughterhouse.

"Anthony! Help!"

Suddenly, he knew that something was very wrong. The voice belonged to his mother, and it had an edge to it that he didn't like. Quickly, he rose and ran into the house.

"Mum!"

His mother returned his slack-jawed stare helplessly. She was leaning over their wooden table, her face contorted with pain. Beads of sweat formed on her forehead. Except for her stomach, she was as skinny as a stewed witch. Anthony fought a wave of nausea. Ever since her last two pregnancies, she had been in terrible pain. Yet his father kept forcing it on her. He said that he wanted another boy, as if he ever looked twice at the one he had.

"Go get your father," she gasped, her thin legs buckling beneath her. Anthony surveyed the room, his heart beating so hard that he thought it might kill him. Maggie, his twelve-year-old sister, shot him a pleading look from the stove, where she was boiling a pot of water. Seven-year-old Kate cradled Rose, the baby, on her lap. They both looked close to tears. Lizzy, age four, was already bawling.

"I'll get the surgeon," he told his mother. She shook her head frantically.

"No, your father," she insisted.

"All right," he agreed reluctantly. They wouldn't have been able to pay the fee, anyway. He turned to his sisters. "Maggie, take care of Mum, would you? Kate, you look after Rose and Lizzy. I'll be right back."

As he dashed through the streets, he tried to ignore the fear in the back of his mind. He wasn't afraid of the baby being stillborn. That had happened twice before. Both times had left them all feeling empty and sick, but it wouldn't be the worst thing. _She won't die_, he told himself. She had lived through childbirth many times before. She just couldn't die.

He found his father in the nearest tavern, hovering over a pint of ale. Until eight years ago, he had been in the Royal Navy. Then an injury to his leg disqualified him from service. Since then, he had spent many afternoons in this manner. Anthony tried not to resent this; he understood that his father was suited to very little else. But he could still see his sisters' patched, worn-out dresses, donated from the church. He could still taste cabbage soup in his mouth, night after night, except for the nights when he had nothing at all. And he could never forget the look on his mother's face from just a few minutes ago.

"Dad," he said. His father turned to him, bleary-eyed and grinning. Anthony could smell the drink on his breath. "You need to come home. Mum wants you."

"Is it a boy?" he demanded.

"It's not going to be anything, Dad, not if she doesn't get some help."

"I'll be on my way, boy. Once I finish this drink…" He regarded the pint lovingly, tracing the rim with his finger. "Here, keep me company for a while."

Anthony slammed his fist on the bar, right next to his father's drink. The liquid sloshed over the rim and onto the table.

"Are you crazy, boy? I paid money for that!"

"No!" Anthony shouted. "You need to come right now!"

With that, the tavern's owner grabbed Anthony by the collar and threw him into the street. The other patrons, including Anthony's father, laughed at the spectacle.

Anthony picked himself up and dusted off the front of his pants. He knew that he would smart all over the next morning. But he had no time to think of that now. He had to run for the surgeon. Mr. Hicks, the only one he knew, lived a few streets away.

It still felt like centuries before he reached the surgeon's. He knocked and knocked, as if that would help. Unsurprisingly, Mr. Hicks looked slightly irritated when he finally opened the door.

"Do you mind, lad? I can hear one knock as well as twenty."

"Please, sir. My mother…my mother…"

He was out of breath now. Mr. Hicks gave him a sympathetic look.

"I'll come," he said. "I'm sure you can pay me back somehow."

* * *

She was dead by the time they arrived.

"I'm sorry," Maggie sobbed. She put her arms around Anthony, who stood there like a statue. "I tried. I really tried. Look at me, Anthony. Please look at me."

"I'm sure you did," Mr. Hicks murmured, looking over the squalid room. It smelled of birth and death. "What about the baby?"

Maggie cried harder. Anthony felt her tears drench the front of his shirt.

"Has it been born yet?" Mr. Hicks persisted.

Maggie loosened her grip on Anthony and shook her head violently. Mr. Hicks stepped towards her and put his hand on her head.

"You know, Maggie," he said gently, "there are ways of saving a baby in this situation. Did you ever hear how Julius Caesar was born?"

"No," she replied. Her voice wavered, but her sobs subsided. "Do you think…?"

"We'll have to start immediately," he interrupted her. "I see you've already boiled a pot of water. Clever girl. We can use that to sterilize my knives."

Anthony wandered outside and sat on the wooden bench. More than ever, he wanted to be on a ship, with the ocean rolling beneath his feet. Portsmouth could never be anything but a reminder of his failure.

He closed his eyes and saw nothing but blue.

_Author's Note: This gets less depressing, I promise. I have a debilitating need for attention, so please review!_


	2. Julius Caesar

_Author's Note: Thanks to Lady Charity and Twisted Ingenue for reviewing! Yes, I will write about Anthony saving Sweeney. That's a few chapters away._

**Chapter Two: Julius Caesar**

When he opened his eyes again, the sky was dark. Shivering, he wondered why he was outside so late, so alone. Then he remembered. It felt as if someone had hit him in the stomach with a billy club. He put his head into his hands and wept.

"What are you still doing out here?"

He looked up and saw Maggie. Hastily, he dried his face on his sleeve.

"I don't know," he admitted. She joined him on the bench and leaned her head against his shoulder. They stayed like that for a few minutes.

"You needn't think it was your fault," she finally said. He turned his head to look at her, and she smiled at his astonishment. "I know what you're like, Anthony. It wasn't your fault. Nobody could have helped her, not the way she was."

"I should have gone straight for Mr. Hicks," he muttered. She shook her head.

"It wouldn't have made a bit of difference. Anyway," she added, "you did save someone by going to Mr. Hicks."

He stared at her again, and saw a hint of triumph in her red eyes.

"The baby?" he asked.

"Yes, Anthony, the baby. It was breathing and crying just a few hours ago, before it went to sleep. I helped Mr. Hicks with the delivery. Oh, Anthony, you should see the baby." She hugged him tightly, and then looked at him from an arm's length. "Do you want to see the baby?"

He nodded. His throat hurt too much for talking.

"Come on," she told him. With that, she led him into the house. He averted his eyes from the sheet-covered figure on his parents' bed. Kate, Lizzy, and Rose were sleeping on their mattress, huddled together like a litter of kittens. Mr. Hicks knelt by the cradle that all the Hope children had occupied at one time or another.

"There it is," Maggie whispered. Quietly, they approached the cradle. Anthony saw a small white bundle inside. He lifted one of the folds to reveal a tiny, bright red face.

"Is it a boy or a girl?" he asked shakily.

"It's a boy," she answered, tracing a finger across the baby's cheek.

"What will we name it?" Anthony persisted. Maggie turned to Mr. Hicks.

"What's your first name, sir?" she inquired.

"James," he replied.

"That's what we'll name him," she decided. "That is, if you don't mind."

"Of course not," said Mr. Hicks. He cleared his throat. "I never had any children of my own. I don't mind at all."

The door flew open, letting in a cold draft and Mr. Hope. He was drunker than Anthony had left him. He cast a bloodshot eye over the room. Of all things, he settled on Mr. Hicks.

"What's he doing here?" he bellowed.

"Be quiet and shut the door," Maggie hissed. "You'll wake the baby."

"The baby?" Mr. Hope echoed. "Is it a boy?"

"Yes," Maggie snapped. "His name is James."

"Where'd you get that bloody name? Well, no matter." Mr. Hope bent over the cradle and stroked the baby's face. "He's a runt, isn't he?" He turned to Anthony. "Well, boy, wasn't I right? Didn't it all work out?"

"Not quite," Anthony said. The block of ice in his stomach, which had started to dissolve in the past few minutes, seemed to double in size. "Mum's dead."

"What do you mean, boy?"

Anthony gestured to his parents' bed. He watched as his father staggered towards the body, lifted the sheet, and gasped.

"My girl," mumbled Mr. Hope. "My poor Mary. I didn't think…"

"You never did," muttered Anthony.


	3. Sunday

_Author's Note: Thanks to Lady Charity, andarae, and smashing for your lovely reviews. I agree that Anthony isn't very developed as a character in the movie, which is kind of why I decided to write this. Also, there are two chapters between this one and the one where Anthony saves Sweeney Todd. At least, I think so, since I haven't written them yet._

_Disclaimer: I realize that I forgot to put a disclaimer in the last chapter. I didn't mean to give the impression that I turned into Stephen Sondheim for the day. I don't do that anymore. Anyway, if you recognize it from Sweeney Todd, it's not mine._

**Chapter Three: Sunday **

Two Years Later

"Blessed are the poor in spirit, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven."

The priest's droning voice allowed Anthony to daydream. The rhythms of mass were so ingrained in him that he instinctively knew when to sit, stand, or kneel. Today, he was particularly glad to have time to think.

"Blessed are the meek, for they shall inherit the earth."

Tomorrow, he would be sailing across the Atlantic. He wondered how many other people in the world got to do what they had always dreamed of doing.

"Blessed are they who mourn, for they shall be comforted."

For a moment, he stopped thinking of the ocean. It was true, he reflected, that the mourning were comforted. Maybe just not enough. James, now called Jimmy, sat beside him, holding an oblong, blue-gray rock in his hand. He called it his fish.

"Jimmy," Anthony whispered. "Put that away."

"My fish," Jimmy insisted, as if that settled matters. Anthony gave up and stole a glance at his four sisters. They all wore white dresses, made of a cheap but serviceable material. For the past two years, Anthony and Maggie had been working. Anthony poured buckets of water over the docks. Ostensibly, this kept them clean. Maggie helped Mr. Hicks in his practice. Between the two of them, they could afford new fabric and meat on Sundays.

"Blessed are they that hunger and thirst after justice, for they shall have their fill."

Their father hadn't been much help. A severe hangover had prevented him from coming to church with the rest of the family. In that respect, it was a typical Sunday. The whole neighborhood knew him as a drunk. Anthony didn't care. Soon, he would be far away from Portsmouth. Meanwhile, his sisters and brother would be fine. He planned to send them money. Maggie, with the help of Mr. Hicks, could manage the rest.

After church, he went for a walk. Maggie never wanted him in the house when she made Sunday dinner.

"You always try to help," she explained, every time she pushed him out the door, "and you're no good at it. You drop things and make me nervous with all that hovering. Then I get mad and throw things, and they don't always hit the right person."

Anthony smiled to himself as he walked into the bakery. He wanted to ask Mrs. Driscoll, the baker's wife, for a favor. Two of his neighbors, Mrs. Lassiter and Mrs. White, were inside, exchanging gossip.

"I saw that Mr. Hope didn't come to church today," Mrs. Lassiter remarked. Anthony decided to announce his presence before they said anything else. Before he could, Mrs. White snickered.

"Drunk, no doubt," she said. "I tell you, that whole family's gone downhill since poor Mary died."

Anthony slipped behind a shelf that Mrs. Driscoll used to display her wares. He didn't want to eavesdrop, but he saw no other choice.

"Yes, poor Mary," sighed Mrs. Lassiter. "Mr. Hope stabbed her to death with his sword, he did."

Both women giggled at this. Without thinking, Anthony clenched his fists.

"Well, he got his comeuppance," Mrs. White replied. "Poor lush can hardly dress himself, let alone work. Now Anthony's stuck washing fish blood off the docks. Poor thing never had a chance to go to school."

"I hear the boy can almost write his name now."

More laughter. Anthony felt himself turn red. He didn't have much of an education; that was nothing but the truth. Maggie and Kate could read and write much better than he could, and Lizzy was well on her way to joining them. But the way they talked about him…

"He'd have to be a fool to let his sister carry on the way she has," Mrs. White hinted.

"What do you mean?"

"Have you ever wondered why a young girl would concern herself with surgery?"

"She's an odd one, to be sure."

"What's more, have you ever wondered why a widower such as Mr. Hicks pays a young girl to putter around his shop, where she has no business being in the first place?"

"You don't mean…?"

"She's nothing but a whore."

Anthony froze. He could take their crudity, their lack of charity, and their cruelty, but this was an outrageous lie. He searched the shelf for something to break. Before he could pick a suitable pastry, Mrs. Driscoll walked into the shop and saw him.

"Anthony, love!" she exclaimed. "What a nice surprise this is!"

She took him by the arm and dragged him to the middle of the shop. Mrs. Lassiter and Mrs. White gaped at him. He felt a twinge of pleasure when he saw their mouths twitch.

"Hello, Anthony," Mrs. Lassiter managed to say. "We didn't see you there."

"Have you been eavesdropping, Anthony?" Mrs. White chirped.

Something broke in him.

"Have I been eavesdropping?" he shouted. "Have I been eavesdropping? Yes, I bloody have, and I've heard every filthy thing either of you have said about my family. You needn't look so ashamed, Mrs. White. You were enjoying yourself a whole lot when you called my sister a whore. My sister, Mrs. White, is one of the few people in this bloody town who made my life the least bit bearable after our mother died, as Mrs. Lassiter so delicately put it, from being stabbed by my father's 'sword'. And you say she's a whore, all because Mr. Hicks is kind to our family. I suppose you don't believe that there's kindness and decency in this world? Well, no goddamn wonder, the way you act."

"He's gone mad," Mrs. Lassiter declared. She turned to Mrs. Driscoll. "Why else would he say such things?"

"He must pick them up somewhere," Mrs. Driscoll replied dryly. "Now, if you don't mind, I'd like a word with my young friend. Go on, then."

"And I can write my name," Anthony yelled, as Mrs. Lassiter and Mrs. White scurried out of the shop. He turned to Mrs. Driscoll. "Fine ladies, aren't they?"

"You'll make a fine sailor," she remarked. "At least, you swear like one." She let go of his arm and began to search the room for a glass. Anthony sat on a bench and watched her. She was the prettiest married woman in town, with a mass of red-gold hair worn in an untidy bun. Anthony felt very grateful towards her; she had nursed Jimmy, along with her own son, even though she had just come from Ireland and didn't know anyone. He thought that he might be in love with her.

"I didn't come here to scare away your customers," he told her. She had her back turned to him, trying to reach a glass on a high shelf. "Do you need any help?"

"Not from you, I don't. You drop things." Finally, she grabbed the glass, and started polishing it with a rag. "Now, why did you come to see me?"

"I wanted to ask you if you could look after Rose and Jimmy while I'm gone. Maggie can't bring them to work, what with all those knives lying around, and the other girls are in school all day. And my father…"

"Yes, I know about your father," she interrupted him. "I'll be glad to look after them." She poured ale into the glass. "Would you like a drink?"

He shook his head.

"Of course you wouldn't," she sighed. "Forgive me, Anthony. You must hate him."

"No," he said automatically. "I don't hate him. Sometimes, I hate myself for trusting him, but…" He stopped himself, and then looked at Mrs. Driscoll. The expression on her face confirmed that he had just said it out loud.

"You needn't," she assured him, recovering herself. "Your mother trusted him, too. Do you hate her?"

"Of course not."

"You'll make yourself sick, thinking like that. Now, go on home. Dinner must be ready by now."

* * *

Occasionally, he had dreams about running through the streets of Portsmouth. He never had any destination, just a sense that something bad would happen if he didn't keep running. They didn't trouble him too much, not anymore. In fact, he was almost glad when such a dream woke him at four o'clock the next morning. The ship left at six, and he hadn't packed yet.

He gathered his things as quietly as possible. The night before, he'd told his family not to see him off. There was no need for them to get up so early. Secretly, he wanted to flee Portsmouth with as little fuss as possible. He hadn't told anyone besides his family, Mr. Hicks, and Mrs. Driscoll.

He slipped out the door and walked the familiar route to the docks. As he passed the shops and churches of his childhood, he thought about how glad he was to leave them. He had some good memories, it was true. Some people had been kinder than he ever would have imagined. By the time he reached the docks, he almost wished that he'd asked his family to come along.

The ship was about to leave when he saw them. Four brown-haired girls in white dresses, one little boy with a rock in his hand, and one unshaven but definitely sober middle-aged man waved at him. He waved back, and surmised from their yelling that they expected him to write. Inexplicably, he felt like crying.

"That your family?" asked a red-haired sailor, who looked to be two or three years his senior. Anthony nodded. "That's nothing. I've got six sisters and three brothers. My name's Dan Shawnessy, by the way. What's yours?"

"Anthony Hope."

Portsmouth shrunk before his eyes as the ship pulled away. He didn't feel much like talking.

"Do you think you'll go back?" Shawnessy asked.

"Someday," Anthony replied, after a moment of thought. "Maybe."


	4. Bountiful

_Author's Note: Bad things happen in this chapter. You have been warned. I hope. If it's any consolation, Sweeney Todd makes his entrance in Chapter Six. He's such a ball of sunshine, as we all know._

_Author's Note, February 8, 2009: This chapter has been revised for two reasons. First of all, nobody sleeps through being dragged out of bed into another room unless he's been drugged, which is not a plot point that I'm willing to introduce. It's just way too complicated. Second, I've had two people ask for clarification on what, exactly, the captain does to Anthony. This is my fault. I hope this version clears things up. But, you know, not too much. _

_Disclaimer: I don't own Sweeny Todd and/or its characters. No need to ship me to Australia out of jealousy. _

**Chapter Four: Bountiful**

The Atlantic Ocean, One Month Later

Anthony knelt on the wooden deck, scouring it with holystone. This task never failed to put him in a foul mood, since it reminded him of his old job in Portsmouth. Distance made him think fondly of everyone at home, including his father. His sisters had never seemed like such perfect angels. Thousands of miles, however, had not improved his opinion of that job. He scrubbed the deck with renewed ferocity, in order to relieve his feelings.

Shawnessy stood a few feet away, humming tunelessly as he scraped rust from the cable chains. This only added to Anthony's irritation. The redheaded bastard didn't even seem to have a song in mind. Immediately, he regretted this thought. Shawnessy wasn't to blame for his wretched state of mind.

"We'll see land soon," Shawnessy told him.

"That'll be a relief," Anthony grumbled. Shawnessy raised his pale eyebrows.

"You should start sleeping when it isn't your watch," he remarked. "You're a bit hard to live with, the way you are now."

Anthony ignored him, and continued to punish the deck.

"I don't think you can make it any whiter, Hope," Shawnessy went on. "You'll wear right through it, at this rate."

"I can't be caught doing nothing."

"True. You'd be flogged like Doyle, then."

They fell silent as Mr. Price, the second mate, passed them. They weren't supposed to talk during their watch. Anthony stared at the holystone and tried not to think of the blood and welts on Patrick Doyle's back. He knew that he was being soft and squeamish. Everyone else said that Doyle had gotten off easy. Still, it bothered him.

"He enjoyed it enough," he muttered, once Mr. Price was out of earshot.

"Doyle, you mean?" Shawnessy had to stuff his jacket sleeve in his mouth to keep from laughing. "Not bloody likely."

"I mean the captain."

"I never saw one that didn't," Shawnessy replied, "and I'm an authority on the subject. I've been on and off ships since I was thirteen, unlike some people here."

"So I've been told."

"They have to like it a little bit," Shawnessy continued, ignoring Anthony's tone. "Otherwise, they wouldn't be captains. By the way, Hope, I wouldn't talk about it if I was you."

"It shouldn't have happened. A man has to act decent, even if he is a captain."

Anthony felt a singular pleasure in hearing himself say these words. They expressed one of his few deeply held beliefs.

"You sound like a mutineer," Shawnessy warned.

Anthony shrugged. If there was one thing he minded about being a sailor, it wasn't holystoning. He would scour a hundred decks in order to see the world. It scared him to be under the power of a man like Captain Robert Grey, though. Anthony had only seen him a few times; generally, a captain did not associate with his crew. That was fine by Anthony. Captain Grey was large and muscular, unlike most of the sailors. He looked capable of ripping off a man's arm, with little effort or hesitation. He had howled like an alley cat in heat while flogging Doyle. It was easily the most disturbing noise that Anthony had ever heard.

"There's nothing you can do to stop him," Shawnessy was saying. "The law's on his side. He could kill you if it pleased him, you know."

"It would please him," Anthony admitted.

* * *

When his watch was over, Anthony visited Thomas Crudge, the ship's cook and surgeon. When he walked into the galley, Crudge was smashing roaches with his fists. Anthony tried to erase this image from his mind. Hardtack wasn't exactly delicious, roaches or no, but he had to eat something.

"Hello, Tom," he called. Crudge turned around, picked a squashed roach off his hand, and smiled. He had very few teeth. "How's Doyle?"

"Dead," Crudge replied. He resumed killing roaches. At first, Anthony thought there had been some mistake. Crudge was mostly deaf, and probably mad.

"What do you mean?" he asked.

"I mean he's dead. Buried at sea last night. Hardtack?"

Anthony didn't usually refuse offers of food, but he couldn't think of that now.

"That can't be true. I never saw him buried."

Crudge shrugged.

"Captain didn't want to make a fuss over it," he explained. "I can't say I mind. Never liked him much. Put on such airs about my cooking. What else am I supposed to do with the roaches but kill them? Cook them? That wouldn't do, wouldn't do at all…"

Anthony fled the galley and ran to the forecastle. He found Shawnessy there, mending a tear in his jacket. A few other sailors were sleeping, smoking, or doing the same thing.

"Doyle's dead," he announced.

"Oh," said Shawnessy. The surprise quickly faded from his face. "That's a shame. I liked Doyle."

A few of the smokers agreed.

"It shouldn't have happened," Anthony protested weakly.

"Well, it does happen," Shawnessy said. His thread broke, prompting him to swear in Spanish. For a moment, Anthony forgot his outrage and envied Shawnessy's knowledge of foreign languages. Then he remembered himself.

"It only happens because of men like Captain Robert Grey. They're let to, you know, they're let to. No one would bat an eye if he killed all of us, because he's the captain."

"There's a good reason for you to shut up," Shawnessy snapped, casting a nervous glance at the other sailors.

"He should be made to act decent, even if he is the captain."

Shawnessy walked to Anthony and struck him across the face.

"That's for your own good," he said. After a moment, he added, "You alright?"

Anthony nodded. Then he sat on the floor and ran his tongue across his teeth. One of them was loose.

* * *

During watch that night, Mr. Price took Anthony aside.

"Captain wants to speak to you," he said, in his usual monotone. Anthony was reminded of what Shawnessy had told him earlier in the voyage: _I'm sure Mr. Price is a lovely man, but I'm not altogether certain that anyone's inside that head of his. _"C'mon," he added mildly. "He said now."

Anthony's eyes wandered to Edward Cooke from Bristol, who was halfway up the rigging. He longed to be in the same position, although he'd lost his footing and nearly fallen the last time he'd been up there. But there was no sense in hesitating. Slowly, he made his way to the captain's quarters. It took him about five minutes to get up the nerve to open the door.

"I see that no one ever taught you how to knock," the captain observed, in a pleasant tone. He sat at a large, ornate desk that was attached to the wall. "No matter, though. Will you close the door behind you?"

"Yes, sir." As he closed the door, he began to think that he might not be in trouble after all. Still, he felt uneasy. He was facing the man who had killed Doyle, after all. Perhaps Crudge had been mistaken, and Doyle had died of a fever. Perhaps it was just a coincidence that he'd been flogged that day. Perhaps...

"I suppose you know why you're here," the captain said, interrupting his thoughts. "There's been talk of a mutiny lately. I thought you might have heard something. Have you?"

"No, sir." He hadn't heard anything, either, unless the captain was talking about his outburst earlier in the day. _Please God don't let that be it. _He hadn't meant to be mutinous; he'd just been upset over Doyle's death.

"Of course you haven't." A smirk passed over the captain's face. "Tell me your name, boy."

"Anthony Hope, sir."

"Hope," he repeated thoughtfully. "How old are you, Hope? Fourteen?"

"Sixteen, sir," Anthony replied, wondering if there was a point to these questions. The captain was looking at him in a way that he didn't like. Hungry, almost, but that didn't really make sense.

"You look younger," he finally said. "You're a papist, is that right?"

"A Catholic," Anthony concurred, annoyed by the choice of words. Most of the other sailors were Protestant, so he usually kept quiet about it.

"You're also a liar," the captain told him. His voice was dangerously low. "You said a lot of things today. You said that I should be made to act decent, even if I am the captain." He rose from his desk and started towards Anthony. "Who are you to decide?" he asked. "Some starving little harbor rat who wouldn't even have a roof over his head if it weren't for the merchant navy?"

"I didn't mean anything by it, sir," he replied quietly, as he pressed himself against the wall and felt for the door handle. The captain was getting closer all the time. "I wasn't thinking when I said it. I was-"

The captain backhanded him across the eyes.

"Damn right you weren't thinking," he said, as Anthony fell to his knees with his hands over his face. "Now, stay on your knees or I'll hit you again."

Anthony obeyed. He felt as though his eyes were going to fall out of their sockets, but he supposed that it could've been worse. A black eye was nothing. He lifted his gaze slightly. The captain was unfastening his belt. The belt wouldn't be so bad. His father had hit with a belt before, although not very often or very hard.

Then the captain threw his belt to the floor. Bewildered, Anthony watched as he unbuttoned his trousers with a peculiar urgency. He couldn't make any sense of what he saw. He just knew that he had to get out of that room. Cautiously, he began to rise.

He wasn't on his feet before the captain's fist smashed into the side of his head. Everything became dark around the edges, and then nothing.

* * *

When he came to, he found himself staring at a wooden floor, with a great weight of top of him and a dull pain in his head. At first, he didn't remember anything; he thought that a storm had tossed him from his hammock while he was sleeping. But the ocean felt calm beneath him, and the weight felt all too human. Besides, no storm could have pulled his trousers down to his ankles.

Before he could shout, a hand clamped over his mouth.

"I could kill you, you know," the weight whispered. "No one would bat an eye, as you said. But if you're quiet, I might let you live."

Silently, Anthony struggled to get free of the captain. He had no idea what might happen to him, or why he needed to be quiet. Soon, his arms were pinned to the floor. Now Captain Robert Grey was doing something to him. He didn't know what it was, but he knew that it was unnamable and that it belonged to alley cats and that it hurt worse than being hit and that, by God, it shouldn't have been happening.

When it was over, the captain turned him over and grinned.

"Just as good as a girl," he pronounced. "You'll be let to live, Hope."

Anthony understood, then.

* * *

After that, the captain did up his trousers and returned to his desk, where he began to write a letter. Too exhausted to move, Anthony stared at a small portrait on the wall. His trousers were still tangled around his ankles. Occasionally, the captain glanced his way and remarked that it was still his watch, or that it was a shame about his shirt getting torn. Wishing he could close his ears as well as his eyes, Anthony continued to concentrate on the portrait, which was of a small, consumptive-looking woman. She might have been Mrs. Captain Robert Grey. When he realized this, he shut his eyes.

He didn't know how long he had been lying there when a knock sounded on the door. Suddenly, he felt a boot in his side. His eyes flew open; the captain was standing over him.

"Get up and put on your trousers," he hissed. "C'mon! Now! You're not a baby. Get up!" Then he raised his voice and called to the door, "Who is it?" What do you want?"

"Shawnessy, sir," the voice replied. "I'm looking for Hope. Mr. Price said you'd sent for him."

Since it had happened, Anthony's entire world had been confined to this room, this floor, this string of outrages. Now he began to see a world beyond it. Shawnessy was waiting for him at the door, probably wanting him to help with some dull, menial task. Things would happen as they usually did, despite what had happened to him. The thought was almost comforting.

"What do you want with Hope?" the captain asked Shawnessy through the door. He cast a furious look at Anthony and motioned for him to rise. "I'd advise you not to waste my time with unimportant matters. Is this important?"

"Yes, sir. Cooke needs help on the rigging, and everyone else on watch is busy."

"What about you?" A hint of irritation crept into the captain's bland tone. "If you're not too busy to bother me, you're hardly too busy to work."

Gripping the wall for support, Anthony got to his feet. Gradually, he became aware of the bruises on his wrists, the blood on the floor, and the blood running down his legs. Quickly, he pulled up his trousers. The captain glanced at him and nodded approval. He felt as though he might be sick.

"Well, you see, sir, the ropes are frayed where Cooke wants to go," Shawnessy was saying, "and Hope's lighter than either of us, so we figure they'll hold him alright. I've been looking for him everywhere. Is he in there, sir?"

"He's still here," the captain replied. He grabbed Anthony by the arm and opened the door. Shawnessy stood outside the cabin. For a few seconds, he just stared at Anthony, taking in the bruises on his face and the blood on his clothes.

"Good Lord, Hope," he said at last. "You've had a bad night, haven't you?"

"He's yours," the captain told him, when Anthony did not reply. Then he gave Anthony a shove that sent him sprawling into Shawnessy, who just managed to catch him . Before slamming the door shut, the captain added, "Good luck getting him up the rigging. He's absolutely useless."

Once the door was closed, Shawnessy gently set Anthony on the floor and knelt beside him.

"Forgive me, Hope," he said, "but that was like trying to get a sack of potatoes to stand up straight. Sweet Jesus, you're a mess."

"Sorry," Anthony managed to say. His throat felt like glass paper. Shawnessy shook his head, brushed the hair out of Anthony's face, and examined the damage done to his eyes.

"You'll have that black eye for a while," he predicted. After a long pause, he added, "That bastard did more than hit you, didn't he?"

"Yes," Anthony agreed. He didn't have it in him to lie at the moment. Shawnessy swore in an undertone and helped him to his feet.

"You're fine, just fine," he muttered. Then he took off his jacket and tied it round Anthony's waist. "It happens sometimes," he explained. "Best to forget that it did."

"Couldn't," Anthony mumbled, but Shawnessy had already thrown an arm round his shoulders and begun to steer him towards the forecastle.

* * *

He lay awake in his hammock for the rest of the night, unable to sleep. No matter how hard he tried to keep his breathing steady, it came in short, shallow gasps that made his throat and chest hurt. It was almost a relief when the ship's bell rang eight times, announcing that it was time for morning watch. He rose and began fumbling with his clothes. His hands shook so badly that he couldn't button his jacket.

Shawnessy noticed his trouble and stopped dead in the middle of pulling on his boots.

"Your clothes are torn," he pointed out, "and they need washing. I'd borrow someone else's, if I was you. Doyle's things are still here. I know some people say that's bad luck, but better luck for you than if you went out like that."

He continued to chatter while Anthony changed into Doyle's clothes, as if he were afraid to stop.

"We'll be in port soon. New York City. There's a lot to do there, but I mostly drink. After that, New Orleans. Lots of girls there."

"That sounds nice," Anthony mumbled. Shawnessy finally looked at him and smiled like a maniac.

"It'll all turn out right," he predicted. "We'll see New York and New Orleans. Until then, there's work. Lots of work."

Anthony nodded, and then followed him to the deck.

_Author's Note: I apologize if this ruined anyone's good mood. By the way, holystone is some kind of sandstone that sailors used to clean decks. Hardtack is basically a big, disgusting cracker. Grog is some kind of liquor. The forecastle is where the common sailors sleep. _


	5. Lorena

_Author's Note: I'm sorry that I haven't updated sooner. This chapter gave me a lot of trouble. I had to beat it soundly and then throw its bag on top of it. _

_Disclaimer: I do not own Sweeney Todd and/or its characters. I also do not own the song "Lorena". _

_Fun Fact: "Lorena" was not written until 1857, so Anthony wouldn't have been able to sing it in 1843. That is, unless he were magic. _

**Chapter Five: Lorena**

"Hijo de puta!"

Wincing, Anthony pulled the sewing needle out of his finger. He had been trying to mend his shirt for the past five days, with little success.

"You better not mean that for me," Shawnessy warned. "I didn't give you that Spanish lesson so you could insult my mother."

"I didn't," Anthony replied. "It's my stupid hands."

Shawnessy raised his eyebrows.

"You ought to get some sleep," he said. "You can barely keep your eyes open."

"I have to finish this shirt."

"Give it to me."

"I'm fine."

"Give it over."

"No!"

Shawnessy lunged across the floor and grabbed the shirt. A brief struggle ensued. Within moments, Anthony found himself staring at his empty hands.

"Now you don't have a choice," Shawnessy told him. "You sleep, and I'll see to your shirt. Understood?"

Anthony nodded, and then climbed into his hammock. He closed his eyes and hated Captain Robert Grey for turning him into someone who had to be watched while he slept, like a child.

After what felt like seconds, someone shook him awake. Immediately, he shouted and tried to get free of the hammock.

"Hope!"

Anthony opened his eyes. It was Shawnessy.

"Sorry," he mumbled. Carefully, he disentangled himself from the hammock. "I thought you were…well, never mind. Is it our watch?"

"No, but I just saw land."

Anthony rushed onto the deck. Suddenly, all of his exhaustion was forgotten.

"There's so much of it," he breathed. Tall gray buildings stretched in front of him as far as he could see. Other ships floated around the harbor in scores. He felt as insignificant as one of his sisters' clothespin dolls.

"It only looks like that downtown," Shawnessy remarked. "You go uptown, and it's like a village. A bunch of farms. No sailor goes up there, though. Too nice."

Anthony leaned over the railing and inhaled the scent of the water.

"I could be home right now," he sighed. "It smells the same as Portsmouth."

"Dirty water smells the same everywhere," Shawnessy replied. "Listen, my second cousin, John Shawnessy, runs a groggery on Centre Street. I know for a fact that he doesn't water down the liquor. You can come along, supposing you don't have other plans."

"I'd like that," said Anthony. As the ship neared the harbor, the buildings seemed to jut into the pale gray sky. For the first time in weeks, he felt the same excitement he had felt in church on the Sunday before he left.

* * *

In New Orleans, Anthony realized that Shawnessy had been wrong. Dirty water did not smell the same everywhere. The harbor of New Orleans smelled sicker than New York City or Portsmouth. It smelled like fever. Still, Anthony felt inexplicably happy to be near it.

"I suppose you can get used to anything, even hanging," Shawnessy mused aloud, when Anthony told him this. They were walking down a rather garish-looking street. Shawnessy glanced at Anthony, who had just fished a knife out of his pocket. "I wouldn't wave that around if I was you. It looks devilish."

"I just wanted to make sure I still had it," Anthony protested. He had bought the knife off an Irishman in Shawnessy's cousin's groggery. The Irishman had initially charged him half a dollar, but both Shawnessys had shouted him into lowering the price.

"You better know how to use it," Shawnessy warned. "It's more dangerous to carry a weapon you can't use than to not have one at all. Mind you, I think it's a good thing that you have one. You never know what you might run into."

"No," Anthony agreed. "I don't ever want to use it, though."

"That's only sensible. No use in looking for trouble." Shawnessy stopped in front of a building with a big porch and wrought iron railing. "Well, trouble of a certain kind, anyway. Hope, this is where they keep the girls."

"What do you mean?"

Shawnessy only snickered, and pushed open the door.

"Are we allowed inside?" Anthony asked. He knew that most girls were kept away from sailors. Shawnessy laughed harder.

"I don't know about you, but I brought enough money. Come on!"

"I don't understand."

"For God's sake, Hope, this is a whorehouse! Now follow me and act like it."

Anthony kept silent for a few moments.

"Why didn't you tell me that in the first place?" he complained. "Now I feel like a fool."

"In your case, that's perfectly appropriate. Now, go into the brothel like a good boy."

* * *

Within the hour, Anthony learned that a whore in New Orleans was different from a whore in Portsmouth. Sure, they earned their money the same way, but the similarities ended there. In New Orleans, they had their own houses. They were nice houses, too. Anthony had never seen a cleaner, more comfortable bed. Currently, he was sitting on that bed, squirming back into his clothes. Really, they belonged to the late Doyle; Anthony didn't want to wear his own just yet.

On the other side of the room, the whore slipped back into her dress. Her dark, fluffy hair billowed around her heart-shaped face like a storm cloud. Anthony could see her pale shoulders, and her lower legs, too. It was the most he had ever seen of a grown woman. He thought that she was beautiful.

"Will you marry me?" he asked.

Slowly, she turned to look at him.

"You know," she told him, "you can do that with other girls."

He nodded, fascinated by her voice. She pronounced "can" as "kin", and "girls" as "gulls". Finally, he realized what she had said.

"I know," he said. "I still want to marry you."

"I'm too old for you," she protested, her eyes wide. "I'm nearly twenty, and you're just a boy."

"I'll be twenty in a few years."

"How many?"

"Um…two."

She raised her eyebrows.

"All right, three and a half."

"Four," she corrected him. "There's no such thing as being something and a half years old. You're either one or the other, and you're sixteen."

"I don't see why it matters."

"Maybe it doesn't," she conceded. "Now, are you going to take me back to England?"

"I think so. Yes."

"Do your folks like whores?"

"They don't have to know."

"Sugar, they can tell."

"Fine. We'll stay here."

"Where will you work?"

"At the docks."

"Where will I work?"

"You won't."

"So, we'll be poor," she concluded. "You'll come home tired every day, and eventually catch yellow fever or simply melt to death."

Immediately, Anthony wiped the sweat from his brow.

"It won't be like that," he argued. "We'll be happy."

"Aren't you happy being a sailor?"

"I was," he admitted. "I've always wanted to see the world, and I don't mind the work. Anyway, I love the sea."

"Does it love you back?"

Anthony stared at her. It was such an odd question. Yet he knew that it was important.

"I thought so," he answered, "but things have happened, and now I'm not sure. The captain killed someone who didn't really deserve it…no one deserves to die, really…and then…oh, I don't want to go back."

He collapsed on the bed, and examined the molding on the ceiling. The whore walked over and sat down beside him.

"There'll be other ships and other captains," she said. "It'd be foolish to stay in this deathtrap just because you ran into some bad ones. Anyway, sugar, I don't think you understand whores. The whole point is that you don't have to marry us."

"You're laughing at me."

"Yes, I am. Now, go on downstairs. I'm not being paid to give you career advice."

Anthony picked himself off the bed. He was halfway to the door before he realized that he didn't know the whore's name.

"What your name?" he asked her.

"Lorena. Don't start singing, now."

He couldn't help it.

"The years creep slowly by, Lorena," he sang as he ran down the stairs. "Snow is on the grass again; the sky's low down the sky, Lorena…"

_Author's Note: I have a question for everyone. How would Anthony have saved Sweeney Todd? I'm not really familiar with the procedure used to rescue someone floating around in the ocean. _


	6. Ghost in the Water

_Author's Note: It's been more than two weeks since I last posted. For that, I am sorry. My teachers seem to think I'm some kind of academic mule. Thanks to everyone for your suggestions and reviews. I also used _The Sea Wolf _and _The Voyage of the Dawn Treader _for reference. _

_Disclaimer: I don't own Sweeney Todd. If you recognize any characters or plot points from the movie or stage show, they are not mine. If I'm lying, you can send me to an insane asylum and sell my hair to a wigmaker's apprentice. Good luck. I have a lot of split ends._

**Chapter Six: Ghost in the Water**

Botany Bay, Australia, 1846

_Dear Anthony,_

_We were all very glad to get your last letter. India sounds wonderful. Nothing much has happened in Portsmouth since I last wrote you. Our father is not very well, although he drinks less than he did before you left. I hardly think it fair. The rest of us are doing better, at least. Kate will be apprenticed to a dressmaker this summer. Her name is Mrs. Cooper. She seems respectable enough. Kate is rather foolish and expects to make dresses for fine ladies and improve her station that way. More likely than not, she will make gaudy Sunday dresses for mean old biddies like Mrs. White. I haven't got the heart to tell her, though. There is not much to say about Lizzy. She is very pretty, as she knows all too well. The boys at school follow her home. This only improves her good opinion of herself. Living with her is near unbearable. Rose has started school, which she hates. She says that the schoolteacher scares her with his cane and loud voice. I expect she will like it better after a while. Jimmy still stays with Mrs. Driscoll during the day. He was quite taken with your account of India, particularly the bit with the elephant. We hear no end of elephants from him. Sometimes I want to reach across the world and shake you for putting the idea into his head. As for myself, I am very well. Alas, I cannot say the same for Mr. Hicks. He might have consumption, although I hope to God that it is something else. His nephew, Roger, comes to visit from London quite often. I think he has his eye on the surgery. That is all the news from Portsmouth that could interest you. You ought to come home soon, as we all miss you. Please be careful, wherever you are. _

_Love,_

_Maggie_

_P.S. Your spelling is much improved._

Anthony folded the letter into fourths and stuck it in his pocket. After a few moments, he took it out and unfolded it. Then he folded it again. He had only received it a few days ago, in Sydney, but his fingers had already worn the paper into softness. In a few months, the _Bountiful _would be in London. He knew that he would have to return to Portsmouth eventually. It was no longer his home, not after he had run away so hard and fast, but he still had a family there. He wanted to see them. Sadly, he realized that Jimmy wouldn't recognize him. Rose might not, either. He thought of his father and Mr. Hicks, both of whom might be dying or even dead by the time he got to England. Sighing, he leaned against the nearest wall. For once, he wished that it was his watch. He preferred scraping the rust off cable chains to being alone with his thoughts, such as they were.

"Man overboard! Man overboard!"

Anthony felt his heart leap. Quickly, he reproached himself, tucked the letter into his pocket again, and ran onto the deck. He elbowed past the other sailors who were gathered around the side of the ship. A few planks, haphazardly nailed together, floated in the water. On top of them lay a pale, limp form. It looked like a soaked pile of cotton, or a sleeping ghost. With increasing alarm, Anthony realized that the form was a man.

"I don't see anything," he heard the captain say. He tried not to flinch. The captain hadn't so much as looked at him since the incident nearly three years ago. Anyway, Anthony had his evil-looking knife, which he sometimes used to cut ropes, to protect him. Still, he couldn't help but get anxious. He knew that he didn't have it in him to kill a man. Even if he did, he would be caught and executed.

"He's right there, sir," Mr. Robinson, the first mate, replied.

"I'm afraid you don't understand me, Mr. Robinson. I don't see criminals or madmen, and those are generally the sort of people who end up floating in Botany Bay. No amount of pointing from you can change that."

"Suppose he was in a shipwreck, sir."

"Suppose you were to join him, Mr. Robinson. How would that be?"

"I understand, sir."

Before anyone could order him not to do it, Anthony jumped into the water. With his mouth closed and his eyes open, he swam towards the makeshift raft. The freezing water made his bones ache. By the time he reached the raft, it was sinking. He hooked his arms under the arms of the unconscious man and swam backwards to the ship. He yelled for the other sailors to throw down ropes, but they just stared. It occurred to him that he and the man might not be allowed on board. He hadn't disobeyed any orders, but that wouldn't save him. For the next several minutes, he treaded water and prayed that they wouldn't be left to drown.

Finally, they threw down the ropes. Anthony fastened them around the man's arms and waist, and then watched as they pulled him up to the ship. He shivered in the water until they dropped another rope. A minute later, he found himself standing on the deck, cold, exhausted, and surrounded by disapproving sailors.

"Well, that was a fool thing to do," one remarked.

"You're done for," another predicted, not unkindly.

"Can I have your knife when…well, you know?"

Anthony ignored them. When he focused his eyes, he saw that the captain was nowhere in sight. Cal Rinehart, who had replaced Thomas Crudge as the ship's cook and doctor, was kneeling over the man, checking for a pulse.

"He's alive," Rinehart announced. He proceeded to unbutton the man's coarse white shirt and chafe his hands across the man's chest. Anthony stared as the man's white skin was rubbed raw. He would have seemed an unusually pale man in England. In the company of sunburned sailors, he looked translucent. A streak of white disrupted his shock of black hair, making his strange appearance decidedly stranger.

The man moaned.

"Can you hear me?" Rinehart demanded. The man made an attempt at a nod, but soon had to rest his head on the deck. He kept his eyes shut tight. "What's your name? Can you tell me your name?"

The man made no reply.

"Dear God," said Rinehart. "He doesn't know his name."

"It's Todd," the man whispered hoarsely. He opened his eyes a little, and then flinched at the sunlight. "Sweeney Todd."

With that, he closed his eyes and went limp. Rinehart put one arm under Mr. Todd's neck and another under his knees. With too little difficulty, he stood up and carried him to his quarters behind the galley. Anthony followed close behind.

"Just don't get in my way," Rinehart warned, as he deposited Mr. Todd on the berth. "Go and get a shirt and trousers from my trunk. Be quick about it."

Anthony obeyed. When he returned, Rinehart had already undressed Mr. Todd. Scars crossed his thin arms and chest. They reminded Anthony of Patrick Doyle.

"Help me dress him, will you?" Rinehart asked.

Quickly, Anthony did as he was told. Mr. Todd's skin felt as cold to the touch as a dead fish. After he was dressed, Anthony and Rinehart piled blankets on top of him. _Please get warm_, Anthony found himself thinking. _Get warm and don't die._

"You watch him while I make dinner," Rinehart told him. Moments later, he came back with a cup of broth and a cup of coffee. "Try to get him to drink the broth if he wakes up. You drink the coffee. You're wet through."

Anthony gulped down the coffee. It was vile-tasting, but it warmed him a little. Uneasily, he glanced at Mr. Todd. He wondered if he ought to try to wake him, but decided against it. Rinehart knew better than he did.

He sat by Mr. Todd for the next few hours. The bells rang, but he didn't budge.

"It's my watch," he informed the unconscious man. "They're right. I _am _done for."

No reply.

"He'll kill me," he continued, in a quieter tone. "He almost killed me before. Instead, he…well, in Portsmouth, everyone said it was the worst thing that could happen to a girl. I don't know what it means that it happened to me."

Silence. Talking to someone who couldn't answer made him feel like a madman. Yet he could never say such things to someone who might answer. He decided to change the subject.

"I'm going home soon. My friend, Shawnessy, signed on board the _Portia _a few months ago because she was heading to Scotland. That's where his family is. This ship, the _Bountiful_, is on her way to London. My family lives in Portsmouth, but I'm going to take the stage from London."

"London?" echoed Mr. Todd.

Anthony gave a start. He wondered how much Mr. Todd had heard.

"Yes, London," he managed to say. "Have you ever been there?"

"Yes." His voice sounded weak, but not as much as it had on the deck.

"What…what is it like?" Anthony stammered.

"Hell."

"Oh." Suddenly, Anthony remembered the broth. "Here. You're supposed to drink this, now that you're awake. The ship's doctor says."

Mr. Todd squirmed into a sitting position, clumsily took the cup, and drained it of its contents. At that moment, Rinehart entered the room.

"For Christ's sake, Hope," he exclaimed. "That broth's been sitting there for hours. You don't have the sense God gave you. Giving cold broth to a near-drowned man…"

"I'm sorry, Mr. Todd. I wasn't thinking."

"He never does," Rinehart told Mr. Todd. "Good thing for you, too. You'd be drowned if he were one bit brighter."

"You saved me?" Mr. Todd asked Anthony.

"I suppose you don't think he's such a fool," observed Rinehart. "By the way, Hope, the captain came looking for you. He says if you skip another watch, he'll throw you into the ocean for good. Don't look like that. God protects children and fools. You're safe as houses."

"Does he?" asked Mr. Todd. At least, Anthony thought that was what he said.

_Author's Note: Thanks for reading! If you review, Sweeney Todd will paint you a picture called _Me Killing Everyone_. Acrylic paints on cardboard._


	7. Terra Firma

_Author's Note: It has been ridiculously long since my last update. The good news is, I'm done with exams and a bunch of other stuff I had to do. By the way, there are a few things I think I got wrong. For instance, I suspect that it would take longer than six months to get from Australia to London in 1846. I hope no one minds too much. Also, I couldn't quite remember the dialogue from "No Place Like London", even though I watched that scene before I wrote this. I decided not to put down the song lyrics, because they seemed awkward._

_Disclaimer: Not it. I mean, not mine._

**Chapter Seven: Terra Firma**

It took nearly six months for Anthony to remember that he hadn't always wanted to be a sailor. Ever since the rescue, the other sailors had been…well, not hostile, exactly. They just let Anthony know that they considered him a perfect fool. Odd, too. Eventually, Anthony took to hiding in the galley and talking to Mr. Todd. He sometimes wondered why he kept trying to make conversation, as Mr. Todd only responded in monosyllables. By the time the _Bountiful _was halfway to London, he had exhausted the subjects of his travels and his siblings. Although he had the feeling that Mr. Todd would have rather been left alone, he continued to talk, first about Shawnessy, and then about his own childhood, leaving out the most unpleasant details. It seemed as if he couldn't stop once he started.

"I wanted to be a saint," he recalled. Mr. Todd's mouth twitched slightly; whether it was from amusement or irritation, Anthony couldn't tell. "I was real little then, maybe six. I didn't know any better. When I realized that I didn't know how, I decided to be a sailor, I suppose because the sea was right there and my dad..."

"Hm," said Mr. Todd.

"Later, I wanted to leave so badly that it seemed like the best thing in the world," Anthony continued. "It's funny, though, isn't it? I could have been a fisherman or even opened a shop, if I'd tried hard enough. But no one ever heard of a sailor saint. We're all supposed to drink and swear and visit places where respectable people don't go. I've done all those things, too."

"Not as much as some of the others."

Anthony looked at Mr. Todd with surprise. That was the longest speech he'd given in weeks.

"Right," he finally agreed. "But I still did them. And what's worse, I enjoyed them."

"Men have done worse things," Mr. Todd said. "They've felt no remorse."

Even as he nodded solemnly, Anthony had to suppress a smile. He was having an actual conversation with Mr. Todd. He had no idea why he cared whether this man, this stranger he'd found floating in the water, spoke or not. It was just a relief to see him do something besides stare at the wall. He decided to risk a question.

"Mr. Todd?"

"Yes?"

"What did you do in Australia?"

In one second, fear, anger, shock, and sorrow crossed Mr. Todd's face. Anthony regretted his question immediately. He knew, almost for a fact, that Mr. Todd had been a prisoner. It had been stupid, thoughtless, and even cruel to remind him of that.

"I was a guard at one of the prisons," Mr. Todd replied.

Anthony nodded, although he didn't believe it for a second. Mr. Todd was slight in the first place, and had obviously been beaten and half-starved, not like a guard at all. Just then, the ship's bell rang, letting Anthony know that it was his watch.

"I have to go," he said. "I think we're close to London."

Another shadow passed over Mr. Todd's face. This time, though, Anthony could only puzzle over what he might have said to cause it.

He was right; the _Bountiful _docked in London three days later. The city was so oddly beautiful; it looked as if it had been fashioned from smoke and rain. He couldn't stop staring at it.

"There's no place like London," he heard himself say to Mr. Todd, just before the ship went through the gate.

"No, there's no place like London," Mr. Todd agreed, but his words sounded hollow. He muttered something else, but Anthony didn't hear. He was too busy remembering how London had been the first place he had wanted to go. Now it would be the last place he would go, at least on the _Bountiful_.

Later, after they got off the ship, he noticed Mr. Todd standing stock still, glaring at the skyline.

"Is everything alright, Mr. Todd?" he asked, stopping beside him.

"I beg your indulgence, Anthony," Mr. Todd muttered, his eyes still fixed straight ahead. "In these once familiar streets, I feel shadows."

"Shadows?"

"Ghosts."

Anthony surveyed the skyline. It was swathed in fog. He still had no idea what Mr. Todd meant; he only knew that everything was not alright. Then Mr. Todd started to speak.

"I always wanted to be a barber," he began. "When I lived in London, there was a barber, a good barber, one who loved his work. He had a wife, a beautiful wife. She could've had anyone, you know, but she loved him. They had a little girl, with yellow hair, just like her. So beautiful..."

He fell silent. While waiting for the rest of the story, Anthony searched the sky for the exact spot where Mr. Todd was staring.

"She was so beautiful," Mr. Todd finally continued, "and they were too happy. It couldn't last. Another man, a man with too much power, saw that she was beautiful, too. When he couldn't get at her, he just got rid of the barber. Then she'd have no choice."

Anthony stared at him and tried to contemplate this horrible ending. He had never lost so much. There'd been his mother, of course, but they'd been unhappy even before she died. He almost didn't want to know what had happened to the barber's wife, but he had to ask.

"The lady…did she succumb?"

"I'm sure no one remembers. That was many years ago." Mr. Todd shook his head. "I'd like to thank you, Anthony. If you hadn't spotted me, I'd be lost in the ocean still."

Anthony nodded. He refrained from saying that he just hadn't wanted another death on his hands; it seemed ungracious, and he had told Mr. Todd quite enough.

"Will I see you again?" he asked instead. After all, he would be alone in London; it would be nice to know someone, even if he never did see him again.

"You might find me if you like," Mr. Todd replied. "Round Fleet Street, I wouldn't wonder."

"Until then, my friend." Anthony reached out his hand, but Mr. Todd had already turned away. As he watched the ghostly man stalk down the street, he asked himself what he had really expected. He barely knew Mr. Todd, after all, and would not allow himself to feel hurt by such a small matter. Shrugging, he threw his bag over his shoulder and thought about finding a place to sleep.

* * *

Before the night was out, he settled on an inn in Bell Yard. It wasn't really a respectable place, but he supposed that it was just about right for him and what he could pay. Besides, it was just north of the Thames, and around the corner from Fleet Street. He found both facts inexplicably reassuring.

"I don't like sailors," the innkeeper, a stout woman with frowsy white hair, told him as she led him upstairs. "Bad for business, you know, but they're the ones who come here. If I had my way, I'd be running a nice respectable place." She paused. "Of course, if I really had my way, I wouldn't have to work at all. But there you have it."

"I don't like sleeping outside," he replied, peering into the dark room. He was glad to see that there was a window, albeit one that was so small that he wondered why anyone had bothered to install it. The innkeeper grunted and left him to stare out the window. The darkness of the sky at such an early hour made him drowsier than he would have been ordinarily, and he soon fell asleep. He had heard once that London got only three hours of daylight.

_Author's Note: I got the "three hours of daylight" thing out of Avi's historical novel, _The Traitor's Gate_._ _In the next chapter: gandering time! I'll be basing this off the movie version, mostly._


	8. From a Window

_Author's Note: Not mine. Not profiting. _

**Chapter Eight: From a Window**

When he could no longer stand his tiny, airless room, Anthony decided to see what the rest of London looked like. Within the hour, he found himself lost in a maze of grey elephants. They were really just houses, of course, however large and imposing they might be. He had seen grander, more beautiful things in India and Italy and Peru. Still, he wished that he could find his way back to Bell Yard. For the third time, he took out his map of London, purchased from a bookseller earlier that morning, and squinted at it hopelessly. A lady in plaid silk gave him a sideways glance as she passed by. He doubted that he had ever known a woman who could afford any silk dress, let alone one with a pattern. Sighing, he sat on a park bench. It occurred to him that he missed being a complete stranger. He belonged here, but here in England, not here in Kearney's Lane. Even the gargoyle on the mansion across the street glared at him, as if to suggest that he had better return to his proper place.

_London looked better from the ship_, he thought. _I ought to go home soon. Can't stay away forever, can I? Portsmouth's bad, but at least I'm wanted there._

He tried to remember whether he had enough money to ride on the inside of the stagecoach. He'd never been on one before, but the idea of riding on the outside scared him. One of Shawnessy's friends had seen a drunk split his skull open by falling off the top of a stage. The fact that Anthony had heard the story thirdhand made it no less terrifying.

Suddenly, his thoughts of split skulls were interrupted by a sound. It was a note, high and long, the way he thought a nightingale might sound. The note was so faint that he wondered how he could hear it, let alone be distracted by it. When he saw no bird on the roof of the mansion, he searched the upper row of windows and spotted a gilded birdcage. At first, he was disappointed that it was only a domestic bird, probably blinded by a bird seller so that it would sing all day and night.

Then he saw her.

She was singing. That was the first thing that he noticed. He couldn't hear her voice anymore, but he could tell by the way her mouth moved that she was singing to her bird. A question occurred to him, not out of scorn or amusement, but out of curiosity regarding girls who lived in mansions:

_What kind of girl sings to her bird?_

His question was necessarily followed by a more personal one:

_What kind of boy reveals the details of his life to a stranger who replies with a face of stone?_

He knew the answer, of course:

_A very lonely one. _

He began to notice more things about the girl in the window. That she was beautiful. That her yellow hair floated around her like a cloud. That she was looking straight at him, giving him a strange, sad half-smile.

It was only when she retreated into the darkness that he noticed he was standing in the middle of the street. Hastily, he returned to the sidewalk, still gazing at the window, willing her to return. Before he could convince himself that he might as well forget her, as he would never see her again and had quite possibly imagined her, a loud, shaky voice disrupted him.

"Alms, alms, for a miserable woman…"

Out of the corner of his eye he saw a ragged, stooped-over beggar woman. He rifled through his pockets for some coins, and absent-mindedly put them into her hand. She had the familiar scent of alcohol. Briefly, he pictured his father in the same condition. The image pained him, but simultaneously gave him a strange kind of satisfaction. He didn't like it at all.

"Thank yeh, sir," the beggar woman croaked. "Thank yeh."

She began to pass him. Suddenly, he thought of something to ask her and caught her by the shoulder.

"Mum," he said. "Could you tell me whose house this is?"

The beggar woman cringed and shook so violently that he wondered if she was having an attack of some sort. Before he became seriously alarmed, however, she stammered that the house belonged to a Judge Turpin.

"And the young lady who resides there?"

"Oh, that's…Johanna, his pretty little ward," she replied, pronouncing each word as if she were choking. "Keeps her snug, he does. All locked up…"

She looked as if she might cry or laugh or scream, but he didn't know which. He was almost sorry that he had asked, but not quite. Without a doubt, the girl in the window existed. She even had a name. The beggar woman was warning him to stay away, that he'd be sorry, but he didn't pay attention. He only thought of Johanna. She looked as though she had never seen the sun. He wanted to bring her to Italy, or at least to a park. That is, if he ever managed to find a park.

He felt the beggar woman's skinny hand on his chest, and tried to get free in the most delicate manner possible. She looked so frail, as if she might disintegrate at any moment. After a moment, she let go, and he began to walk back to the park bench, where he had left his bag.

"Sailor boy!" he heard her shout behind him. "If yeh want some o' that, yeh can always come to me. Only thruppence!"

His ears burned, but only for a moment. It didn't matter that a handful of ladies and gentlemen were now glaring at him, as if he had brought that wretched woman into their neighborhood. He knew her name. Never mind that he had no idea how he would meet her. He _would _meet her, somehow.

After retrieving his bag, he started in what he believed to be the general direction of Bell Yard. In doing so, he passed the front of the mansion. A grey-haired gentleman (Judge Turpin, he assumed) stood in the great stone doorway. It took Anthony a second to realize that the judge was beckoning to him. For a moment, he hesitated. Something felt wrong, though he couldn't say what. Besides, the beggar woman had told him to stay away.

Then again, he might never get another chance, however small, of meeting Johanna. Surely it was alright if he was invited inside. Cautiously, he approached the judge.

"Come in, lad," the judge said. Anthony followed him inside and down a grand, marble-floored hallway, nervously explaining that he had been trying to find Hyde Park. That was the first place that came to mind. The judge did not reply until they were inside a room with a frieze of half-naked women painted on the red walls. Anthony supposed that it was a study, from the bookshelves that lined the walls.

"You said you were looking for Hyde Park?" the judge inquired, in a dry, gravelly voice. Anthony hesitated in the doorway. He had the uncomfortable feeling that he had been in this situation before.

"Yes," he replied. "It looks so large on the map, but…"

"Sit down," the judge told him, gesturing towards a chair. Reluctantly, Anthony obeyed.

"It's embarrassing for a sailor to lose his way," he found himself babbling, "but…there you have it."

"A sailor," the judge repeated, giving him an odd look.

"Yes, sir. Off the _Bountiful_."

"A sailor must be practiced in the ways of the world." The judge turned to the shelf and traced his index finger over the spine of a book. "Such practices," he said, his voice lowering to a raspy whisper. "The geishas of Japan, the catamites of Greece, the harlots of India…"

He leered. Anthony felt the old impulse to make sure that he had his knife on him.

"Inside these books," the judge continued, "is everything you've ever dreamed of doing to…_with _a woman. Would you like to see?"

"I think there's been some sort of mistake," Anthony said carefully. In a second, the judge swooped down on him and pinned his arms to the arms of the chair.

"I think not," he hissed. "You _gandered _at my ward, Johanna, you _gandered_, yes, sir, you _gandered_…"

Anthony knew precisely what had felt wrong before. _Stupid, _he thought. _Incredibly stupid. I'm not off the ship for a day, and I forget just how careful you have to be. I might as well be sixteen again. _But he couldn't think about that now. If he was quick, if he was smarter than he had ever been known to be, he could still escape. It was just difficult to think clearly with the judge's face so uncomfortably close to his.

"Sir," he started, "I meant no harm."

"Your meaning is immaterial. Mark me, if I see your face again on this street, you'll rue the day you were born." The judge gestured to someone in the corner of the room and, mercifully, stood up straight. Anthony's sense of relief was destroyed, however, when a stout, rodent-like man emerged from the shadows of the study and grabbed hold of his jacket. Soon, he found himself splayed outside on the pavement, his hands scraped and bloody from breaking his fall.

"Hyde Park is that way, young man," the rodent man sneered, from the doorway of the side entrance. "Straight on, and to the left." Anthony struggled to get to his feet, only to find himself down again. He had no time to break his fall, and so fell flat on his face. Before shock could turn into pain, he heard one nauseating crack, and then another. Something had struck him across the back. He coughed and gasped for breath as the full impact of his injuries hit him.

Soon, he felt a boot dig into his side and turn him over. The rodent man loomed over him, wielding a retractable cane, presumably the one that had struck him. Anthony couldn't help but notice that he had a drunk's nose.

"You heard what Judge Turpin said," the rodent man told him, pressing the end of the cane into his forehead. "Next time, it'll be your pretty little brains on the pavement."

After what seemed like a decade, he removed the cane and returned to the house. Anthony made another attempt to get up. This time, something was thrown on top of him. On inspection, it turned out to be his bag.

_At least I don't have to go back for it, _he told himself. His third attempt at rising was successful, if painful. Dazed, he staggered into the street, clutching onto the walls for support. He tasted blood in his mouth and had to wipe some from his eyes.

On the way back to Bell Yard, he received more sideways glances than he had in any other city. They didn't bother him, though. His mind was elsewhere.

_She has to live with those two, _he thought. _Johanna has to live with those men, that one with his awful books and the other one with his cane. Shut up inside all day, if that beggar woman knows anything, and I think she does, even if she is crazy. I'll never meet her. They won't let me. I got thumped just for looking at her. No, I'll never see her. Not unless I sneak in. Yes, that's what I'll do. I'll sneak in and steal her, if that's what she wants me to do, and I think she will. Then she'll be free and I'll be with her and neither of us will ever be lonely again and…_

He began to think that he had been hit too hard.

_I'll steal you, Johanna._

* * *

"I'm running a respectable business here," the innkeeper called, as he tried to make his way up the stairs an hour later. "I can't have people getting into fights and drinking and whatnot."

"I wasn't fighting," he told her. "I walked into a door."

"No, you didn't. Not with the way you're walking. Don't you think I know where you been?" When he didn't reply, she sighed. "There's a pump down the street, if you're wanting any water. Course, I have some gin in the kitchen."

"Thank you, Missus…?"

"Fleming."

"Thank you, Mrs. Fleming." With that, he shut the door behind him and collapsed on the lumpy, odd-smelling mattress. He was too tired to make a trip down the street, and could wait a few hours to clean up the dried blood. Instead, he closed his eyes and thought of Johanna.

He was in the middle of dreaming up their second child when he realized how foolish he was being. After all, he didn't know if she wanted to run away with him. Perhaps she liked living with the judge. Perhaps the judge was simply being protective. Anthony found this last possibility somewhat hard to accept, as the judge's protectiveness had taken a layer of skin off the end of his nose.

He sighed, and resolved to go to Kearney's Lane one last time. If Johanna gave any sign of wanting help, he would gladly give it. If she appeared to be content, he would put the whole thing out of his head and face whatever waited for him in Portsmouth. No matter what.

_Author's Note: I was trying to strike a balance between making Anthony in-character and making him not creepy. What does everyone think? _

_By the way, this is one of my favorite scenes in the movie. The chapter is mostly based on that, but I've taken some elements from the stage show, too, like the beggar woman's solicitation. I would've included the whole "Ahoy, sailor boy!" song, but it didn't work when I tried it._

_I might add that the guy who played Anthony in the college production that I saw was very good, not to mention cute, which might explain this whole fanfic. _


	9. The Way Ahead Is Clear

_Author's Note: I'm not the sort who threatens not to post if I don't get a certain number of reviews, but I would like to know how I'm doing. Reviews would be helpful. Anyway, here's another chapter. Enjoy._

_Disclaimer: Not mine, not mine, definitely not mine._

**Chapter Nine: The Way Ahead Is Clear**

What Anthony needed was a sign. He had never made such a difficult decision before. The choice had always been obvious or completely out of his hands. This time, though, no outside forces were pulling him in one direction or the other. If he was going to save Johanna, he had to know, without a doubt, that she needed and wanted saving. After all, he would be attempting a dangerous and quite possibly very stupid thing. He needed proof that it was also the right thing.

Two days later, he returned to Kearney's Lane. He hid himself behind a stone post at ten o' clock in the morning; around noon, he saw Johanna lean from her window. In the full light, she was even more beautiful. The sun lit up her hair and eyes so that she looked luminous. Cautiously, he stepped from behind the post. She gave him her sad half-smile. Then she threw something small and shining. He watched it fall to the ground and then picked it up.

It was a sign. An unmistakable sign.

She had thrown him her key. She had given him access to her home. This didn't just mean tea or a dance. This wasn't just an ordinary gesture of courtship. This was serious. This meant that she wanted him to help. What else could it mean?

(What else could it mean, indeed? A few things came to mind, all of them borrowed from lewd stories he had heard aboard the _Bountiful_. Of course, he only half-believed those stories, and they didn't seem to match Johanna. Or him, for that matter. He didn't want them to match.)

In a moment, all of his doubts disappeared. It was as if a narrow tunnel had been placed before his eyes. He could see nothing else but Johanna. Of course he would help her; of course he wouldn't go home without her. Of course, of course.

When he looked up, she was gone.

* * *

As he raced back to the inn in Bell Yard, he tried to formulate a plan. Getting her out of the house would be easy; getting her out of London might not be. He couldn't hide her in the inn, not for long. The previous day, Beadle Bamford, the rodent man, had followed him home. No, the first place they'd look would be the inn. He'd need somewhere else to keep her.

He stopped at St. Dunstan's Market with the intention of finding something to eat. As he passed a colorfully decorated caravan, he was accosted by a skinny, ragged boy with a large quantity of blond hair. He couldn't have been much older than twelve.

"Buy Pirelli's miracle elixir?" asked the boy, waving a small bottle of yellowish liquid in his face. "Two bottles for a penny!"

"No, thank you," he replied. He tried to keep walking, but the boy stepped in front of him.

"Don't you even want to know what it does?"

"Fine," he sighed. "What does it do?"

"Makes your hair grow, that's what."

"I already have hair."

"Course you do," said the boy, who was looking more desperate to make a sale by the second. "Maybe you know someone what doesn't. It's two bottles for a penny!"

Two women at a nearby stall watched them and giggled.

"Wouldn't buy that if I were you, dear," one called. "T'is piss, that's what, piss with ink. T'was all the rage, if you can believe that, until Mr. Todd came along yesterday and won the barbering contest."

"Mr. Todd?" Anthony asked. He wondered if it could be the same Mr. Todd.

"Mr. Sweeney Todd of Fleet Street," replied the other woman. "Gave the best shave anyone had seen on a man in a long time. Got five pounds out of it, too. Odd-looking fellow. Has this big white streak in his hair. I guess the cobbler's children go barefoot, then, don't they?"

Anthony made no answer. He remembered Mr. Todd saying that he had always wanted to be a barber and telling the story of the barber and his wife. Before he could make sense of anything, the boy brandished the bottle in his face again.

"Two bottles for a penny," he repeated. Anthony sighed, rummaged through his pockets, and found a penny.

"Here you go," he said, handing over the penny. "Keep the bottles. I don't know what I'd do with them."

"To-BY!" called a voice from the caravan. "For-GEET about de elixir! I half a plan!"

Anthony wondered at the accent. It sounded like it was supposed to be Italian. He had been to Italy, however, and a few things about the accent sounded off. When he looked down, he saw that the boy was scowling.

"That's my master," he said. "I 'ave to go. Thank you, sir, for the penny."

"Welcome," Anthony replied. Then he started for Bell Yard once more. When he came to Fleet Street, though, he stopped. Suddenly, he realized where he could hide Johanna.

Before he could find Mr. Todd, he had to stop at quite a few shops, where he learned, among other things, that Mrs. Mooney's meat pies were made from cats "but don't let that bother you, dear. They're quite good, really, as long as you aren't very fond of cats." Finally, the greengrocer told him that Mr. Todd had just moved into the building with the large window and "Mrs. Lovett's Meat Pies" written on the front. With this information, he found Mr. Todd's shop in no time at all.

When he opened the door, he saw a pale, drawn woman looking back at him. Her reddish-brown hair was piled haphazardly on her head, and her dress was just about falling off her shoulders. Oddly, she reminded him of Mrs. Driscoll.

"Oh, I'm sorry," he mumbled, once he realized that he had been staring too long. "Excuse me."

"Mrs. Lovett, son," she introduced herself.

"A pleasure, mum." He saw Mr. Todd out of the corner of his eye and launched into the story of sad, beautiful Johanna and her guardian who never let her out of doors. He must have been going faster than he had realized, for Mr. Todd stopped him and told him to slow down.

"Yes," he replied. "I'm sorry." He took a breath and sat down in the chair in the middle of the room. "This girl has a guardian who keeps her locked away, but today she dropped this."

He found the key in his pocket and showed it to them.

"It's surely a sign that Johanna wants me to help her," he continued. "That's her name, Johanna, and Turpin is her guardian. He's a judge of some sort. Once he goes to court, I'm going to get into the house, release her, and beg her to come away with me tonight."

A strange look passed over Mr. Todd's face. Once more, Anthony had no idea what he had done to cause it. Finally, Mrs. Lovett broke the silence.

"Oh, this is very romantic," she said. Anthony turned to her and smiled.

"Yes," he agreed. Then he turned back to Mr. Todd. "But I don't know anyone in London, you see, and I need somewhere safe to bring her until I've hired a coach to take us away. If I could keep her just for an hour or two, I'd be…I'd be forever in your debt."

Another silence followed. Mr. Todd stared far into the distance, as if he had not heard a word. Mrs. Lovett sighed.

"Bring her 'ere, love," she told him.

"Thank you, mum." He turned to Mr. Todd. "Mr. Todd?"

Mr. Todd replied with the slightest of nods. But it was still a nod. Anthony thanked him, thanked Mrs. Lovett again, and left the shop in a hurry. In the back of his mind were thoughts of barbers and wives and cats and pies. Since he still had a tunnel before his eyes, though, all these thoughts were eclipsed with ones of Johanna.


	10. Johanna

Chapter Ten: Johanna

_Author's Note: Sadly, I won't be able to update this again for a while. I'm going to an obscure retreat where neither this nor any other story will see the light of day for about three weeks. You could also say that I am going to a summer program. There is a slim possibility that I'll be able to update, but I wouldn't expect it._

_Disclaimer: The usual disclaimer-y stuff. Not mine, etc._

**Chapter Ten: Johanna**

The journey back to Kearney's Lane took no time at all. Anthony's feet seemed to navigate the streets of London by themselves, leaving his mind free to concentrate on Johanna. He supposed it was the tunnel's doing.

Once at the house, he saw no sign of Judge Turpin or Beadle Bamford. After a glance round, he darted across the street and to the side entrance of the house. He recognized the door; he had been tossed out of it like a bucket of slops two days ago. Carefully, he took Johanna's key from his pocket and inserted it into the lock. For a moment, he feared that he had chosen the wrong door, that the house had hundreds and hundreds of doors. When he twisted the key, however, the lock gave way with no resistance. After experiencing one perfect moment of triumph, he pushed open the door and stepped inside.

He stood in the marble-floored hallway for a few minutes, unsure of what to do. He didn't know where to look for Johanna. The house was enormous. There were probably dozens of parlors and sitting rooms and rooms that he never knew existed. And suppose a servant saw him. Suppose the Judge came home early. Anthony imagined prison, transportation, and his pretty little brains on the pavement. He wondered what he had been thinking.

Then he saw her. Johanna, standing right in front of him. She held a finger to her lips and then motioned for him to follow her. Gladly, he obeyed. She led him into a room off the hallway, one with green wallpaper and dark, heavy-looking curtains. Immediately, she began to pace the floor and worry a wispy strand of yellow hair.

She had blue eyes. He hadn't been able to see that from the street.

"He's going to marry me," was the first thing she said. After glancing at Anthony, she added, "My guardian. Judge Turpin. My _father_." Her distraught expression gave way to one of disgust. "I called him 'Father' just a few days ago, the day I first saw you from my window. I've been calling him 'Father' for as long as I can remember, and now he wants to marry me. Marry me! Oh, Lord."

"Miss," he ventured, but she continued to pace and talk.

"I can't go through with it, I can't, I can't. He's my father, or he might as well be, and I'm sure he's not a good man. He did something to you, I thought, him and the Beadle. I watched you go into the house, and I never saw you walk out. When I saw you today, I was so relieved that nothing very horrible had happened. Did it?"

He shook his head. She smiled her usual half-smile.

"I'm glad." Her distressed face returned. "I won't marry him. I'd do anything but marry him. I'll poison myself, that's what I'll do. There must be something in the kitchen I can use."

"You don't have to-"

"You don't understand, sir. He gets everything he wants. He always does. There's no use in resisting him." She changed the direction of her pacing from clockwise to counterclockwise. "I always knew he would choose my husband, but I never suspected that he would appoint himself for the position. I used to dream that I could leave this house, leave him, but now I'll never get away, never."

She began to sob. Although Anthony was sorry to see her cry, he couldn't help being glad to get a word in edgewise.

"Will you marry me?" he asked. She stopped pacing, drew in a ragged breath, and stared at him.

"You'd marry me?" She looked incredulous. "You'd do that, just so I wouldn't have to marry him?"

"Well," he replied, "I also love you. That's a big part of it. Ever since I saw you, I've loved you."

He felt himself blush and had to duck his head. He suspected that she found him ridiculous. When he managed to look up, he found that she had stepped closer to him.

"I…I love you, too," she admitted, before smiling again. "Oh, this is awfully quick, but it doesn't matter, does it?"

"No," he agreed. Suddenly, he had his hands tangled in her yellow hair and her arms hooked around his shoulders.

"Kiss me," he told her, and she did. It should have been awkward, since they were so close to being strangers. Besides, he had never kissed anyone, not like this, and there was little chance that she had. But it was wonderful, and he knew in a moment that they were wonderful, wonderful and desperate, but all the more wonderful for that.

Once they got their breath back, they made plans.

"You'll return for me tonight," she said. "I can't stand to stay here one more night. He watches me. I know he does. You'll come back for me tonight, won't you?"

"Tonight," he agreed. "Then we'll run over to Fleet Street. I have a friend there who'll hide you while I hire a chaise. He's a good man, Mr. Todd is. A barber."

"Where will we go, then?" she asked.

"There's France, there's Spain, there's-"

"The Moon," she interrupted, smiling. "But, really, where will we go?"

He thought for a moment. Not Portsmouth. Plymouth, maybe. The _Bountiful _had come out of Plymouth. He'd never seen it, but Shawnessy had described it as a nice sort of place.

"Plymouth," he decided. "By the sea."

"As long as it's not here," she sighed. "You don't know what it means to have a way out when you thought you'd never have one. This seems too good to be true."

"It's not," he promised, just as a nearby church bell announced five o'clock. Johanna leaped about a foot in the air.

"You have to leave," she told him. "He'll be home any second now."

"I'll come back for you tonight," he assured her, adding, "Johanna." He wanted to go on saying her name forever. It felt that wonderful to say it.

"Goodbye…" She paused. "I don't know your name. Not that it matters, really, but-"

"It's Anthony. Anthony Hope."

She gave him a whole smile this time.

"Kiss me," she said, and he did.

_Author's Note: Here's a question. When it comes time to dispose of Mr. Fogg, should I go with the movie or the musical version? I think that they both have advantages and disadvantages, but I can't decide what would be best for the story._


	11. Mea Culpa

_Author's Note: Thanks to everyone who reviewed! After thinking and reading your advice, I've decided to go with the musical version, because it is simply more awesome. I was going to go with the movie version and have Anthony feel guilty about letting the lunatics kill Mr. Fogg, but he can feel guilty about letting Johanna kill him instead. And forgetting to knock. _

_Disclaimer: Nothing has changed since the last chapter. I still don't own Sweeney Todd._

**Chapter Eleven: Mea Culpa**

Anthony almost flew back to Fleet Street. He still couldn't quite believe that Johanna loved him, let alone that she had agreed to marry him. It was just too wonderful. His feet pounded her name into the cobblestones as he ran. Beneath his euphoria, he heard Mr. Todd say "too happy", but his feet soon drowned out the sound.

"Johanna, Johanna, Johanna," creaked the stairs to Mr. Todd's shop. Even the door cried out her name when he flung it open. He barely contained his good news long enough to make out Mr. Todd's silhouette in the dimly lit shop.

"Mr. Todd, I've seen Johanna, she said she'd leave with me tonight…"

He trailed off. Nausea overwhelmed him as he realized his mistake. Mr. Todd looked at him blankly, holding his razor in midair. Judge Turpin sat in the barber chair, glaring at him through a layer of lather.

"You." The Judge directed the word at Anthony and loaded it with as much venom as one syllable could carry. He rose from the chair and whipped off the white sheet that had been draped over him. "There is indeed a higher power to warn me thus in time," he continued. His voice was like a volcano that had just begun to smoke. "You, elope with Johanna…I'll make sure that neither you nor any other man shall ever lay eyes on her again!"

He turned to Mr. Todd.

"As for you, barber," he said, "it's all too clear what company you keep." He grabbed his coat from the hanger. "Service them well and hold their custom, for you shall have none of mine!"

With that, he stormed out of the shop, hastily pulling on his coat. Panicked, Anthony looked to Mr. Todd, who was staring at the door as if in shock.

"Mr. Todd, you've got to help me," he implored. "Mr. Todd, please…"

Mr. Todd fixed him with a look of disbelief and disgust. "You made your bed, now lie in it," the look seemed to say. Or, "How stupid can one person be?" Or, "You failed to help her. No surprise there."

Anthony read all of this into one look. But Mr. Todd only said one word.

"Out."

He spoke softly, but with an edge as sharp as his razor. Anthony sensed danger, but decided to try one last time.

"Mr. Todd, please…"

"OUT!"

This time, Anthony ran. On the stairs, he passed Mrs. Lovett.

"What 'ave you done now?" she asked him. She didn't wait for an answer, but bustled up the stairs and into the shop. Soon Anthony heard yelling.

"I HAD HIM!"

"I know, the sailor busted in, I saw them both running down the stairs-"

"NO, I HAD HIM!"

_Had him? _Anthony wondered. But he didn't stay to hear the rest. Instead, he ran to his room at the inn and feverishly began packing his things. He maintained the hope that he could reach Johanna if he hurried.

* * *

It was dark by the time he got to Kearney's Lane. When he saw the carriage parked in front of the Judge's house, he hid behind one of the stone pillars. His hopes were dashed when Beadle Bamford left the house, half-dragging, half-carrying Johanna towards the carriage.

"No, please!" she screamed, as the Beadle forced her into the carriage. Anthony ran towards them, shouting her name, but he was too late. Dismayed, he watched as the carriage turned the corner, with Johanna and the Beadle inside. Then he saw the Judge.

"Where are you taking her?" he demanded. His voice was too loud and his hands were shaking. "Tell me or I'll…I'll…"

He hesitated. There was nothing he _could_ do. He had no money, no power, and no connections. The Judge had all three.

"Kill me, boy?" the Judge jeered. "Here I stand!"

For a moment, Anthony considered the possibility. He thought about how good it would feel to bring out his knife and make the smug look on the Judge's face disappear. Then he remembered himself. The thought of death made him sick. Besides, killing the Judge wouldn't bring back Johanna.

So he ran. He ran through the streets of London until his knees buckled under him. He called her name until his voice went hoarse. When he finally settled on a park bench for the night, he couldn't sleep. He couldn't forget that it was his fault Johanna was gone.

_Mea culpa, mea culpa, mea maxima culpa…_

_Author's Note: Hope you enjoyed. This is short, I know, but I didn't want to dwell too much on events that happened onscreen, which most people reading this have seen multiple times. _


	12. Ten Thousand Miles Away

_Author's Note: Sorry that I've been so slow to update. This chapter took a seriously long time to write. I think I started on it two weeks before I finished it. It's long, at least._

_In this story, I'm having Mrs. Lovett open the pie shop long before Anthony finds Johanna. I think that's what happens in the stage version, because "God, That's Good!" takes place before "Johanna". _

_Disclaimer: I do not own _Sweeney Todd_, "Ten Thousand Miles Away", or "The Ballad of Barbara Allen". Of course, I think those last two are public domain. Anyway, I own no one but the postmistress. By the way, I'm not really sure how the postal system worked in Victorian London, so that part might not be historically accurate._

**Chapter Twelve: Ten Thousand Miles Away**

_Anthony,_

_When you wrote last August, you promised that you would be home within the week. It has been nearly three months since then, and more than three years since any of us have seen you. You say that something is keeping you in London. You say that you will return to Portsmouth once you have taken care of it. What is this thing, Anthony? I am no longer sure that I believe you. _

_Maggie_

Anthony stood inside the post office, staring at the letter. Without a doubt, it was the shortest, coldest one his sister had ever sent. He counted the weeks in his head; he had been in town for twelve. Nearly three months, as Maggie had said. Almost a season. Nearly three months of combing the streets for Johanna, of sleeping on park benches because he couldn't afford a room anymore, of making do with summer clothes that couldn't keep out the cold.

The postmistress cleared her throat. Quickly, he folded the letter, tucked it in his jacket, and asked her for a piece of paper.

"That'll be a penny," she said, narrowing her eyes. Anthony tried not to scowl at her. He had seen the world; he knew that a penny was an exorbitant price to pay for a single scrap of paper.

"Too much," he said. The postmistress's eyes narrowed even more.

"Maybe in your country village, it's too much," she told him, "but here, it's a penny. If you can't pay, I can't spare any paper."

They glared at each other. Finally, Anthony reached into his pocket and handed over the penny. She smiled and gave him a graying sheet of paper. He took a pen and a bottle of ink from his bag and began to compose a reply to Maggie.

"I'd rather you not do that in here," the postmistress said. He ignored her and kept writing.

_Dear Maggie,_ he began.

_Please believe me. I cannot tell you what I have to do now but I will later and I will come back to Portsmouth once I have done it. I do not know how long this will take though._

_Love,_

_Anthony_

He scrawled the address on the back of the letter and then waited for the ink to dry before handing it to the postmistress.

"That'll be a penny," she repeated. He thrust his hand into his pocket, found another coin, and shoved it into her outstretched hand. She flinched slightly but maintained her smile. He supposed he would have smiled, too, if he had won the penny.

_No place like London,_ he thought, as he trudged out of the post office and into the street. Nearly three months ago, he'd said the same words, albeit with a different meaning. Now he was running out of time, money, and shoe leather. Worse, he suspected that he would never find Johanna, no matter how tirelessly he searched. And he knew that he would never forgive himself if he didn't find her.

* * *

By seven o'clock that evening, he found himself on Fleet Street. He had meant to follow Beadle Bamford again, in hopes of being led to Johanna. A few nights ago, however, the Beadle had discovered what he was doing and threatened him with the retractable cane. Anthony thought it best to keep his head down for a while. Anyway, he had been meaning to visit the pie shop. Since the day of his mistake, he had tried frequently to see Mr. Todd, in order to apologize. The first few times, Mrs. Lovett had told him not to bother. After that, the pie shop had suddenly become so busy that he never had the opportunity to speak to her.

The whole business was exceedingly strange. He had gone over the events of that evening more times than he could count, but he'd yet to understood why Mr. Todd had been so angry. Granted, he had lost a customer, and a rich one at that. Still, that didn't seem cause for murderous rage, or for holding a grudge for weeks on end. Then again, Anthony had never really understood anything about Mr. Todd: not his name, not the way he had appeared in Botany Bay, and definitely not his strange story. Every time Anthony tried to piece it together, he ended up more confused than he'd started.

Presently, he felt something tug on his sleeve. When he looked down, he saw that it was the beggar woman who had told him Johanna's name. He pulled away from her, hoping that she wouldn't solicit him again. She tightened her grip.

"Hell," she whispered, pointing shakily towards the pie shop. "Don't you see it? Don't you see it? The devil comes up from the sewers to see his wife in the bake house…oh, they don't believe me, no they don't, but they'll believe you, you'll tell the Beadle, won't you?"

_She's gotten worse,_ he thought, as he pried her fingers off his arm.

"Well, mum," he said carefully, "I'm not on the best of terms with the Beadle. You'd better ask someone else."

"But it's the end of the world, you have to believe me, do you know what will happen if you don't? Look at them, look at that smoke; can't you see anything, sailor boy?"

"No!" he said, shaking off her hand. "Don't talk like that, please," he added. "It won't do any good."

With that, he hurried across the street to the crowded pie shop, where he took a seat at one of the outside tables. He meant to wait until Mr. Todd wasn't busy with a customer, but that time never came. Men seemed to file in and out of his shop in rapid succession. Anthony could have sworn that a few of them never descended the stairs at all.

He'd been watching for a while when Toby, the boy who worked in the shop, stopped at his table. Anthony had seen him before, and had always assumed that he was Mrs. Lovett's son. Now that Toby was standing in front of him, he recognized him as the boy who'd tried to sell him hair elixir in St. Dunstan's market. He looked much better now that he was wearing decent clothes instead of rags and a yellow wig.

"What'll it be, mister?" he asked.

Anthony had forgotten about food; he'd forgotten to eat since that morning. It was hard to remember such ordinary things while Johanna was missing. Now he realized just how hungry he was.

"I'd like a meat pie," he told Toby, "and a pint of ale."

* * *

"Resting, Dearie?"

Anthony lifted his head from his arms. Mrs. Lovett stood in front of him with her hands on her hips. He glanced about the yard; all of the other customers had left. Only Toby remained, running a rag over the tables.

"What time is it?" he asked. His tongue felt thick and clumsy. His mind had settled somewhat; his thoughts were blunted. He was quite drunk. He remembered the last time, three years ago in New York. It had made him so sick that he hadn't cared to repeat the experience until this evening. This was how it had started. The sleepiness and warmth preceded vomiting into a gutter by a few hours.

Mrs. Lovett still hadn't answered his question. Instead, she turned and motioned for Toby to come to her. Toby dropped the rag and obeyed.

"Yes, mum?" he asked.

"You go on to bed, love. I'll do the tables."

"I ain't tired." Toby clenched his jaw. Either he intended to show Mrs. Lovett how determined he was to finish the tables, or he was struggling not to yawn. Mrs. Lovett smiled and, with little success, tried to smooth his bristly hair. Anthony averted his eyes; he wasn't sure why.

"Course you ain't," Mrs. Lovett replied, "but get to bed all the same."

When Toby had gone inside, she turned to Anthony.

"It was good of you to take him in," he said, before she could ask him to leave. She raised her eyebrows, but her smile let him know that he'd bought himself a few more minutes.

"That's nice, love," she said, "but I'm not doing anything out of the goodness of my heart. The lad's cheap labor. He works all hours of the day, and all I've got to do is give him a few leftover pies. I'm being practical, that's all."

"You must've had to buy him new clothes," he observed. She waved her hand dismissively, but some faint color was coming into her pale cheeks.

"Well, I couldn't have him serving the customers in rags, could I? People'd talk. Anyway, business's better than it's ever been." She paused and looked at him askance. "Hadn't you better be getting home? It's getting on eleven."

"Oh…yes…well…of course…" He got to his feet unsteadily and began fishing through his pockets. "How much do I owe you?"

"Thruppence." Her expression was unreadable as she watched him fumble with the coins. When she had them safely tucked in her bosom, she asked him, "Don't you have anyone to go home to?"

"Not tonight." He thought of the possible implications and blushed. "Not in London," he amended. "I'm a sailor, mum. I don't know anyone in town." Then he started to turn and leave. She stopped him with a look.

"I don't just mean in London," she snapped. "I mean anywhere. There must be somebody waiting for you to come home."

He thought of Maggie and nodded.

"Why keep them waiting any longer, then?" she asked.

For a moment, he couldn't speak. This was the same question that had plagued him over the past several weeks. _She can't know what she's asking, _he told himself. _Oh, Lord, she just can't know. _

"I'm not going home without Johanna," he said finally. Mrs. Lovett sighed. His temper flared. "What?" he asked, rather too loudly. "I have to find her. It's my fault she's lost, after all."

"Calm down, love," she told him. She eyed his empty pint on the table. Then she looked at him. "How would you like another pint? On the house," she added.

He started to say that he didn't drink. Then he realized how ridiculous this sounded. He didn't recall exactly how many pints he'd had, but the number was anywhere from two to four.

"Thank you," he said. Not that it would've mattered if he had refused; Mrs. Lovett was already pulling him towards the shop. He took one last glance at the stairs and saw Mr. Todd standing at the top. He was gazing at the yard, as if he expected customers at this late hour. Anthony remembered his original intention of seeing him. Before he could do anything about it, however, Mrs. Lovett had him sitting inside the pie shop with a pint in his hands.

"Nice and warm in here, ain't it?" she asked. He nodded. "I suppose you've been sleeping outside? Oh, I can tell," she said, glancing at him. "You wouldn't be falling asleep over dinner if you had someplace decent to sleep."

"The inn cost too much," he explained. "I thought I'd run out of money if I stayed."

She nodded, and then began tidying up the shop. He finished his pint. Outside the window, he could hear a man singing:

_My true love, she was beautiful,_

_My true love, she was young,_

_Her eyes were like the diamonds bright,_

_And silvery was her tongue,_

_And silvery was her tongue, my boys,_

_As the big ship sailed away,_

_And she said, "Will you remember me,_

_Ten thousand miles away?"_

"Ten thousand miles away," Anthony repeated softly. Mrs. Lovett looked at him and smiled.

"Drunk, I expect," she said.

"Oh, I am," he admitted, although he was fairly sure she meant the man outside the window. She laughed and resumed putting away the pots and pans. The man kept singing:

_Oh, dark and dismal was the day,_

_When last I saw my Meg,_

_She'd a government band around each hand and another one round her leg,_

_And another one round her leg, my boys,_

_As the big ship left the bay,_

_And I said that I'd be true to her,_

_Ten thousand miles away._

"I'd give it up, love, if I was you," Mrs. Lovett said, bringing Anthony out of his reverie.

"What do you mean?" he asked sharply.

"Johanna," she told him. "Just give it up. You ain't going to find her."

For the second time in an evening, she had struck him dumb. He wanted to say that he would never stop searching for Johanna, that of course he would find her. But he couldn't.

"How long have you been looking for her?" she continued. "Two months? Three? Did you really think he'd put her where you could find her? Now, don't look like that," she admonished. "I'm only telling you this for your own good."

"You're wrong," he managed to say. "I'll find her."

"Oh, I know you enjoy it now," she went on, ignoring him. "You don't mind being in love with someone who can't love you back, maybe because that's the best you've ever had. Probably it makes you feel noble. But it'll eat at you later, Dearie, believe me."

"Johanna loves me," he said faintly. "She said so. Wherever she is, she loves me."

"How many times have you spoken to her?" she retorted. "Listen to me. It's better to forget her now, while you're still young enough to do something else with your life."

A long silence followed. The man outside sang another verse:

_The sun may shine through the London fog,_

_Or the river run quite clear,_

_The ocean brine may turn to brine,_

_Or I'll forget my beer,_

_Or I'll forget my beer, my boys,_

_Or the landlord's quarter-pay,_

_Before I'd forget my own true Meg,_

_Ten thousand miles away._

Finally, Mrs. Lovett spoke.

"I knew a girl when I was young." Her voice sounded oddly dreamy. "She didn't have a bad life, not really, but no one ever loved her enough. Do you know what I mean by that?" She didn't wait for an answer. "Well, she ended up marrying a man, not because she loved him, but because she needed a roof over her head. As for the man…well, he liked her well enough, but really any woman would've done just as well." She paused and picked up Anthony's empty pint. "Then a couple moved in over…I mean, next door," she continued. "The wife was a nice little thing. None too bright, but a nice little thing all the same. But the man was just about everything the girl would've liked in a husband." She found a rag and began polishing the pint. "So, what did she do?" she asked. "She fell in love with him. Even after he was…I mean, after the couple moved to another part of town, she stayed in love with him. By then, her own husband was dead, and she was all alone." She gave Anthony a meaningful look. "There's a moral in that story."

In his head, he went through all the morals he had ever heard.

"Don't put all your eggs in one basket," he suggested.

"Not quite," she said, smiling. "Don't love somebody who doesn't love you."

In that moment, he knew that he had heard enough cryptic stories and sad-voiced lectures to last him the rest of his life. He rose. His legs trembled beneath him.

"Goodnight, Mrs. Lovett," he said. "I think I'll be going now."

"Alright, love." She sounded somewhat surprised. "Goodnight."

* * *

For the rest of the night, he walked alongside the Thames. He felt unreal, as if he were made of vapor or glass. He decided that he was a ghost, doomed to wander the streets of London forever, never eating, sleeping, or talking to anyone. His sailor's clothes would become more ironic by the year.

The strong smell of fish from the river brought him back to reality. He found himself standing in front of square stone building with a huge iron door. A plaque next to the door read "Fogg's Asylum". He could hear the inmates inside shrieking.

_At least I'm not spending the winter there, _he thought. He was about to keep walking when he heard a girl singing over the din:

_Oh, mother, mother, make my bed,_

_Oh, make it soft and narrow,_

_Since my love died for me today,_

_I'll die for him tomorrow._

It was a wonder that he could hear her at all.

Johanna.

Slowly, he backed away from the building in order to see into the window. Then he saw her. She was leaning forward slightly, with her hands wrapped around the iron bars of the window. At first, he thought that she didn't recognize him. Then she gave him her sad half-smile.

Until the sun rose, he stayed with her.

He felt so happy that he thought he might die from it.

_Author's Note: Hope you enjoyed! In the next chapter: Guns! Girls! Guilt! And some interaction between Sweeney and Anthony! But not that kind of interaction! Even though I personally like that pairing! But that's another story for another day!_

_!!_

_(Punctuation is fun.)_


	13. Yellow

_Author's Note: Thanks to everyone who reviewed! By writing this chapter, I learned something. Namely, it's fun to write scenes with guns. So many movies make sense now. This is the Fogg's Asylum chapter, by the way. It's based on the play, mostly, but I added some stuff. I'm sorry it took so long. I actually started it weeks ago, but I didn't like it, and then…well, it's really not an interesting story.  
_

_Disclaimer: Not mine._

_Disclaimer Two: I don't know anything about wig-making, so please excuse any mistakes. _

**Chapter Thirteen: Yellow**

Anthony needed two things: coffee and a plan. He purchased the first from a vendor in St. Dunstan's market, shortly after leaving Johanna. After gulping down a few cupfuls, he still felt as though his head were about to split. He doubted that he could have thought of a way to get Johanna out of the asylum even without a hangover, but it sure didn't help. By eight o'clock, he realized that he only had one option. He would have to ask for Mr. Todd's help.

* * *

As he ran up the stairs to the shop, he prayed that Mr. Todd had forgiven him for his mistake with the judge. He also hoped that Mrs. Lovett didn't hold his behavior the night before against him; he suspected that he had made himself somewhat ridiculous.

"Mr. Todd! Mrs. Lovett, mum!" he called as he opened the door to the barber shop. This time, he knew better than to reveal the purpose of his visit before seeing who was in the room. When he saw Mr. Todd and Mrs. Lovett standing together at the big window, however, he wondered if he'd interrupted something. They were standing quite close, and looked as though they'd been talking. Judging by Mrs. Lovett's dismayed expression, he'd made another mistake.

"What is it, Anthony?" Mr. Todd asked, and something in Anthony relaxed. He didn't sound angry at all; the edge had gone out of his voice.

"He's got her locked in a madhouse," Anthony said, once he remembered himself.

"Johanna?" Mr. Todd asked.

"Fogg's Asylum," Anthony replied, nodding. "I've circled the building a dozen times. There's no way in. It's a fortress."

He knew how he sounded: panicked, desperate. By contrast, Mr. Todd seemed unruffled. In fact, he was smiling. The smile looked rather odd, probably because it was on Mr. Todd's face, but it was a smile all the same. Slowly, he crossed the room towards Anthony.

"I've got him," he whispered.

"Mr. Todd?" Anthony asked, more out of habit than anything else. Mr. Todd, true to form, did not answer him. Instead, he looked thoughtful and put a hand on Anthony's shoulder.

"We've got her," he finally said. It occurred to Anthony that he'd meant to say this all along. "Where do you suppose all the wigmakers of London go to obtain their hair?"

Anthony hesitated. He'd never given a thought to wigs, let alone how they were made.

"Where?" he asked.

"Bedlam. They get it from the lunatics at Bedlam." Mr. Todd's smile widened. Anthony tried and failed to connect what he had said with Johanna.

"I don't understand."

"We shall set you up as a wigmaker's apprentice," Mr. Todd explained. "That will get you into the asylum. I trust that you know the exact shade of Johanna's hair?"

"Yellow?"

Mr. Todd shook his head impatiently.

"Not exact enough," he said. "You'll never pass as a wigmaker unless you can be exact." He glanced out of the window and sighed. "We don't have long. Mrs. Lovett?"

"Yes, Mr. T.?" Mrs. Lovett turned from the big window to Mr. Todd. Anthony had quite forgotten that she was there.

"Bring me some suitable clothes and a gun," Mr. Todd told her. Silently, she crossed the room and walked out of the shop. It too Anthony a moment to realize what had just been said.

"A gun? Why do I need a gun?" Panic crept back into his voice. "I've no business carrying one, Mr. Todd. I've never fired a shot in my life."

"You won't have to," Mr. Todd replied calmly. "Mr. Fogg only has to think that you might."

Anthony began to feel sick. If he went through with Mr. Todd's plan, he'd be the same as Beadle Bamford, or Captain Robert Grey. At least, he wouldn't be different enough.

"I can't," he said.

"How else do you expect to rescue Johanna?" Mr. Todd snapped. The edge had come back into his voice. "Do you think he'll hand her over if you ask politely? Are you really that daft?"

That stung Anthony into silence.

"Well?" Mr. Todd asked, after a moment. "We don't have all day."

* * *

Sometime later, Anthony found himself sitting in the barber chair (which was different, somehow), watching Mr. Todd pace the floor, and answering questions about Johanna's hair. He supposed that he'd been bullied into it, but he didn't really mind. If a gun was needed to rescue Johanna, he'd bring a gun. He trusted Mr. Todd on the matter.

However, he had to wonder if a wigmaker's apprenticeship was always as nerve-wracking as Mr. Todd made it seem.

"There's tawny, there's golden saffron, there's flaxen, and there's blonde," he was saying now. "Repeat that. Repeat that!"

"Yes, Mr. Todd," Anthony replied, starting a little.

"Well?"

"Tawny, golden saffron, flaxen, blonde." All of these words meant yellow. He'd learnt that much.

"Good. Which shade is Johanna's?"

"I don't know, sir." Anthony pressed himself into the back of the chair when he saw the look on Mr. Todd's face, which only seemed to make Mr. Todd angrier.

"Don't lean back in that thing!" he warned. "It has a trick back. You might hurt yourself." After a moment, he asked, "Is Johanna's hair light or dark?"

"Light." Anthony remembered how it had looked in the sunlight, the day she had thrown him the key. "Very light. Like wheat."

For a moment, Mr. Todd's deadpan was replaced by an expression of sadness. It disappeared so quickly that Anthony wasn't even sure it had been there in the first place.

"Flaxen," Mr. Todd muttered. "Johanna's hair is flaxen."

"Flaxen," Anthony repeated.

"What about texture? Is it coarse or fine?"

"Fine, I think." He recalled the feel of her hair in his hands. "Yes, fine."

"Straight or curly?"

At that moment, Mrs. Lovett entered the room, carrying a stack of clothes and a top hat.

"I got those things you wanted, Mr. T.," she sang.

"Leave them on the trunk," he grunted. Anthony watched Mrs. Lovett as she left the room and, for the first time, wondered exactly what she was to Mr. Todd. Also, he couldn't for the life of him think where she had gotten a top hat.

"Anthony!"

He jumped about a foot in the air. Mr. Todd was looking at him expectantly.

"Yes, Mr. Todd?"

"What does Johanna look like? Besides her hair."

Anthony hesitated. It was a bit of an odd question, and he didn't see what this had to do with wig-making. Still, he saw no harm in answering it.

"She's beautiful," he began, "but I've told you that already, haven't I? She's very pale, and she almost always looks sad. I suppose anyone would, living with him."

Mr. Todd glowered at this reference to the judge. Anthony took this as a sign that he should return to describing Johanna.

"I've only seen her smile once," he continued. "Really smile, I mean. She has such a sad way of smiling with her lips but not her eyes. I'd know it anywhere. She's lovely when she smiles like that, but I don't want her to have any cause for it once we're together and out of London."

Mr. Todd said nothing.

"I'm sorry for scaring away the judge," Anthony blurted out. The silence had made him so uneasy that he couldn't help it. "I still don't really understand what happened that day, but I'm very sorry."

Mr. Todd kept pacing the floor as if he hadn't heard anything. It took a great deal of effort for Anthony to keep his mouth shut. Finally, Mr. Todd spoke.

"Don't trouble yourself about it. I expect it's alright now." Before Anthony could say anything, he added, "Don't offer Mr. Fogg a great deal of money. Flaxen doesn't fetch as much as some other shades."

* * *

Anthony had rarely felt more nervous than he did when being led down the corridor of Fogg's Asylum. It wasn't just the eerie, flickering lights that lined the walls, or the gun in his waistcoat. It wasn't just being dressed up like a gentleman when he was so far from being one. It was all of these things combined with the presence of Mr. Fogg, an oily man who kept calling Anthony "sir" and the inmates his "poor children".

"I think it would be to our mutual interest to come to some arrangement regarding my poor children's hair," he told Anthony, as they walked past a door with a barred window. Anthony glimpsed several bedraggled, dark-haired women standing and sitting inside the room.

"Brunettes," Mr. Fogg explained. As they passed another door, he gestured towards it and said, "Redheads."

Anthony wanted to ask him if he really had so many dealings with wigmakers that it was necessary to organize the inmates by hair color. He refrained. A real wigmaker would have known the answer.

"I keep the blondes in here," Mr. Fogg said, stopping at a third door. He glanced at Anthony. "It was yellow hair you was wanting, sir?"

"Yes," he replied.

Mr. Fogg unlocked and opened the door, revealing a roomful of wild-eyed blonde women. As he walked into the room, several of them shrieked and flung themselves away from him. Others whimpered, hugged their knees, and rocked back and forth frantically. Some huddled together; some clutched ragged pillows or blankets. Many of them were weeping. It wasn't the condition of the women that filled Anthony with horror, though. It was the fact that nearly all of them were wearing tattered dresses or paper-thin shifts, even though it was late fall and the window had no glass to keep out the cold. Many of them wouldn't survive the winter, more likely than not.

Outraged as he was, he felt no desire to kill Mr. Fogg until he saw the man lunge at the women, gnashing his teeth and making animal noises as he did. He fought to keep his expression neutral as Mr. Fogg turned to him.

"Whichever one you like, sir," he said. Anthony searched the room for Johanna. He found her almost immediately, sitting in between two women who had curled themselves into balls. She wasn't screaming or crying; she just stared at the floor with her hands folded in her lap. Like the other inmates, she was dressed in rags and covered in grime; her long yellow hair had grown lank and tangled. She also looked smaller and frailer than Anthony remembered her; he suspected that Mr. Fogg was no more generous with food than he was with clothes. The expression on her face scared him more than anything, though. It was utterly blank, as if she weren't really there.

"Sir?" asked Mr. Fogg. Anthony remembered that he was supposed to be Mr. Edward Shelley, wigmaker's apprentice, and tore his eyes from Johanna.

"That one has the shade I need," he said, nodding in her direction. He tried to sound as impersonal as possible. He glanced at Johanna. She had lifted her gaze, but gave no sign that she recognized him.

"Oh, you want Ophelia?" Mr. Fogg grinned at him, which served to make his face look like a skull. He sidled up to Johanna and took a pair of scissors out of his pocket. "She's a pretty little thing, ain't she?" As he traced a gnarled finger across the curve of her face, she began to shiver. "Mad as they come, though," he continued. "Sings all night and day. I've tried beating it out of her, but-"

"Anthony!"

Everything happened so fast. One moment, Johanna hadn't been there. The next, she was holding Anthony so tightly that it hurt. He knew that the plan depended on him not reacting, so he kept his face blank and his hands out of her hair.

"I apologize, sir!" Mr. Fogg stared at Johanna, wringing his hands in mortification. "You never know what these lunatics will do. Sorry, dreadfully sorry…"

"Quite alright," Anthony replied, trying to find the gun in his waistcoat. Johanna's embrace made it difficult; the fact that his hands were shaking so badly didn't help. Finally, he got hold of it.

"You said we'd be married," Johanna reminded him, loudly enough for Mr. Fogg to hear. "You promised. That was last August. Kiss me?"

"Do you know the young lady, sir?" Mr. Fogg inquired, leering. Besides the night before, Anthony hadn't heard Johanna's voice in three months. Clearly, it had shown on his face.

"Kiss me?" she repeated.

"Not now," he told her. It didn't matter if Mr. Fogg heard him now. "Once we're out of here."

"Sir?"

Slowly, Anthony brought the gun out of his waistcoat and pointed it at Mr. Fogg, who yelped and flattened himself against the wall. Within seconds, every pair of eyes in the room, including Johanna's, were fixed on the gun.

"Stay there or I'll shoot," Anthony shouted. He hated the sound of his voice just then, even more than he hated the sight of Mr. Fogg cringing and covering his face. His hands were shaking worse than ever. He could barely hold onto the gun. Suddenly, Johanna wrenched it from his hands and pulled the trigger.

Then he saw Mr. Fogg crumpled on the floor. A bright red stain was growing like a rose on his dirty white coat. Bewildered, he looked at Johanna.

"Some people deserve to die," she explained.

For a moment, they stood together, staring at the man she had killed while the screaming blonde women fled the room.

"Kiss me?" she whispered.

"Of course."

They did.

And then they ran.


	14. Shakespeare and Gloves

_Author's Note: As usual, it has been way, way too long since I updated this. I think it's been almost three months. I'd never abandon my baby, though. My sad, sad little baby. I didn't go with the movie or the musical version of the barbershop conversation. It starts out more like the musical, I guess, but I changed the dialogue because it looked stilted on the page. Then there's some non-canon past sharing on Johanna's part. I hope no one minds. _

_Disclaimer: Pretty much what you'd expect. It's not mine._

**Chapter Fourteen: Shakespeare and Gloves**

_It couldn't have happened,_ Anthony told himself, as he stood guard outside the alley where Johanna had gone to change. He had already put on his old jacket. His heart beat so hard, he was sure it could be heard across the Thames. _No one need have died,_ he thought._ Mr. Todd promised._ _I imagined it_. _I was nervous, never held a gun, not enough sleep, too much ale. I should never drink, always makes me sick, but I haven't been drunk since last night. Why would it make me see things if I wasn't drunk? _

He felt very dizzy. In an attempt to steady himself, he closed his eyes and leaned against the rain-slicked stone wall. Soon Johanna would be finished changing. Then they could run to Fleet Street, where they'd be safe. Everything would be fine, just fine.

"Anthony?"

Johanna's voice brought him out of his thoughts and back to the alley. He turned and saw her wearing his old trousers, coarse linen shirt, frayed blue jacket, and scuffed, thick-soled boots. Her long, yellow hair was hidden under a squashed brown cap that had once belonged to his father. She held his bag in her hands.

"Well?" she asked. "Would you recognize me?"

"Anywhere," he said automatically. She rolled her eyes and smiled. _She couldn't have done it, _he thought. _Doing bad things to people makes you feel bad, even if they're bad people, and she's smiling. _He still felt rather dizzy. He hoped she didn't notice.

"I meant the police," she told him, biting her lower lip. "Do you think I'll pass as a boy?"

"Of course," he replied. "What girl would be caught wearing my clothes?"

"I'd rather wear your clothes than what Mr. Fogg provided." She spoke his name with such bitterness that Anthony shivered. "They're warmer, at least," she continued. "Besides, I feel as if I were in a Shakespeare comedy."

"Why's that?"

Johanna stared at him with wide, disbelieving eyes.

"Haven't you ever read Shakespeare?" she asked. "_As You Like It_? _Twelfth Night_? _Romeo and Juliet_? _Hamlet_?"

He shook his head.

"You do know who Shakespeare is?"

"Of course I do," he replied, embarrassed. "It's just that my family didn't have a lot of books, and I wasn't allowed near the theater. Once I snuck into a play, one about a man with a donkey's head, I think, and I got the belt twice. Once from the manager for not paying, once from my father for going at all."

"Poor Anthony, then," she said, smiling. Sighing, she added, "I'll have to tell you about Shakespeare, and Donne, and Blake, and Keats, and Tennyson, and everyone else. Imagine! You don't know anything about it."

"No," he agreed, wondering why she was so excited over his lack of education. He noticed that she was rubbing her hands together. "Do you want my gloves?"

She stared at him dubiously. He supposed that the change in subject had been a bit abrupt. Still, he felt as though she were watching him for signs of damage, possibly because he'd been doing the same thing to her.

"You only have one pair," she told him. "Won't your hands be cold?"

"Not if yours are warm." He took off his gloves and handed them to her. "It makes me cold to look at them, the way they are."

"Thank you," she replied. Her eyes were brimming with tears.

"Johanna," he started. She shook her head and quickly dried her eyes.

"I'm fine," she said. "I'm just tired. That's all."

She gave him a weak smile and began to pull on his gloves. As he watched her, he wondered if they would always speak of Shakespeare and gloves as if nothing had happened.

_Nothing did happen, _he told himself. But he knew by now that telling himself something didn't necessarily make it true.

* * *

When they entered Mr. Todd's shop, nobody was there.

"No matter," he told Johanna, who was surveying the room with wide eyes. "He'll be back in a moment."

"Are you sure?" she asked. Her eyes were fixed on two photographs that stood on the washstand. One of them was of a fair-haired woman in a white dress; the other was of the same woman with an equally blonde baby. "Can he be trusted?"

"I trust him as I trust my right arm," he replied, with a little more reassurance than he felt. "He's done so much for us, Johanna. I never would've managed without him." He took her hand and squeezed it. "Now, wait for him here, and I'll return with the chaise in less than half an hour."

"Why can't I come with you?" she asked. She freed her hand from his and placed it on her hip. "We could find a chaise and leave London directly. It'd be so much quicker that way."

"I told Mr. Todd that I'd bring you here," he explained. "He'll think something happened to us if we're not here."

"Write him a letter, then. I don't want to be left alone here. I want to come with you!"

"I won't take long," he promised. He glanced out of the window and wondered if they were running out of time. "It's too dangerous on the street. Please, Johanna, just wait here."

She crossed her arms and sighed.

"Look at me," he pleaded. She obliged, although she didn't look particularly happy about it. "I'll hurry, I promise," he continued. "We'll be out of here in the next thirty minutes. I'll take you anywhere you want. We'll get married. We'll have a little house somewhere. We'll have a life together, Johanna. What happened before won't matter."

"That's not true," she told him. "It'll always matter." A shadow crossed her face. Anthony was reminded of Mr. Todd. "I've had things happen to me," she went on. "You'll have to understand that if you want to marry me. I'm not some princess that's been kept in a tower just for you. I'm not pure. I'm not even good."

He started to object. He started to say that she was wonderful, that he wasn't any good without her, but she wouldn't stop talking.

"You know," she said. "You saw me kill a man. I'm glad that I killed him, too. Hasn't anyone ever hurt you so badly that you wanted them to hurt as much as you did? Haven't you ever met someone who needed to be stopped before they hurt anyone else like that? Isn't there someone that you'd kill if you could?"

"Yes," he said, but she didn't seem to hear.

"I've never been good," she continued. "It's in my blood. My father…the judge, I mean…he used to say so. He said my real father was a convict. He was a thief and a murderer who beat and then abandoned my mother. She killed herself because of him. His name was Benjamin Barker. That makes me Johanna Barker. His daughter. Isn't that awful?"

"That's not your fault." Anthony felt sick to his stomach when he thought of the judge making Johanna feel guilty about something that she couldn't help. "That doesn't make you bad."

"The sins of the father are visited on the children," she replied bitterly. "Haven't you heard? He used to make me pray over it. 'On your knees, Johanna. No, Johanna, God hasn't forgiven you yet. Pray more, Johanna.' He wasn't happy until I had tears streaming down my face. I mean my father the judge, not God. I don't know what God thought about it."

"Johanna..." That was all that he could say. Luckily, she seemed to understand.

"It's fine," she told him. "Just put your arms around me and kiss me before you go."

Gladly, he obeyed. She sighed contentedly.

"You're so warm," she said. "You don't know how cold I've been. How cold I've always been."

_Author's Note: This is nowhere near the end of the story, by the way. There's going to be some trouble with the police, an appearance by Mrs. Bamford, a few funerals, a wedding, and muffins. Also, there's a lot of stuff after that. The thing is, I'm not sure whether to write a sequel or just keep adding chapters to this story. I don't know if it matters, but anyone who has a preference should speak up._


	15. Mistaken

_Author's Note: Ha-ha! For the first time in a long time, I don't have to apologize for taking an ungodly amount of time to update. Thanks for your reviews! They made me very happy. Unfortunately, there is a Mrs. Bamford. We won't be seeing her for another chapter or two, though._

_Disclaimer: I own nothing, except for the odd coachman or police officer. _

**Chapter Fifteen: Mistaken**

"I'm sorry, lad. It's just not enough."

Anthony stood outside a coach-office in Cheapside. Blankly, he stared at the coachman, who had resumed breaking off bits of pastry and feeding them to his horses, which were hitched to a venerable hackney coach. Then he looked at his own outstretched hand, which held all the coins he'd thought to bring with him. There was more money in his bag, but he'd left that with Johanna.

"That's all I have," he said. The coachman shrugged and wiped a horse saliva-covered hand on his trousers.

"This isn't a charitable institution," he informed Anthony. "I've got to make a living, same as everyone else. You can take the stage or rent a horse from a jobber, I'm sure. Now, who's a good girl? My darling Peggy, that's who. Would you like another bit of muffin? Good girl!"

The last few sentences were adoringly addressed to one of the horses. Anthony blinked and then continued to plead.

"It's an emergency," he told the coachman. "My wife is alone in a shop and I promised her that I'd return ten minutes from now."

_It's not really a lie, _he argued to himself._ We're getting married soon._

"You're too young to have a wife," the coachman sneered. "Go on, get away with you. Be careful of the crazies, though," he added, in a less derisive tone. "There's been a breakout at one of those madhouses by the river, or so I've heard. I don't know the name. It's a bad night. I'll tell you that much."

"How awful," said Anthony. Then he turned on his heel and ran for Fleet Street once again. Now he knew that Johanna had been right. If she had come with him, they could have caught the stagecoach by now. The coachman's words made him anxious to leave town as soon as possible.

* * *

As he approached the shop, an acrid smell filled the air and overwhelmed his nostrils. For some reason, it brought to mind the time he had accidentally spilled a pot of boiling water on the _Bountiful _and scalded his legs. He had a bad feeling that it came from Mrs. Lovett's chimney. His sense of unease increased when he found Johanna at the bottom of the outside stairs, shivering and clutching one of Mr. Todd's razors.

"Johanna?" he ventured. She looked at him with wild eyes. Her hair had come undone and escaped his father's old cap. He grabbed her left hand, the one that didn't have a razor in it, in both of his and searched her face for marks. Aside from the fear in her eyes, he couldn't find any. "What happened to you?" he asked. "Please, tell me."

After a long silence, she finally spoke.

"He was going to kill me." Her voice was unnaturally calm, as though she were reciting a poem. "He held his razor over me. He would have slit my throat, but somebody screamed and he had to go downstairs. I think he killed the judge and an old beggar woman, too, but he made them disappear through the floor. There was blood all over the windows and his face. He told me to forget his face, but how could I? You never saw so much blood, Anthony…"

"Who are you talking about?" he asked. He hardly understood what she meant. It sounded like madness. "Who was going to kill you?"

"Mr. Todd," she replied. She gave him a hard look. "Your _friend_ was going to kill me. He's a murderer, Anthony. Did you know that?"

For a moment, he couldn't speak. He remembered the scars on Mr. Todd's chest, the speculations the other sailors had made about him, and his obviously untrue story about being a prison guard. He had taken for granted that Mr. Todd was an escaped prisoner, but had never thought of him as a dangerous man. Mr. Todd had suffered much. Mr. Todd deserved sympathy. Mr. Todd was a good man. But Johanna wouldn't lie to him. Johanna wasn't really mad. Johanna had to be telling the truth. In his confusion, Anthony clung to the one piece of information that he could fully comprehend.

"He went downstairs?"

Johanna raised her eyebrows and nodded.

"Do you want to see what he did?" she asked him. "Do you want to see what he could've done to me?"

Anthony did not want to see, but that hardly mattered. He allowed her to lead him inside the shop, into the corridor behind the kitchen, and down the steps to the bake house. The burning smell grew stronger by the second. As they descended the stairs, he noticed that the room was lit by a blazing oven. Angry, crackling noises came from it. Anthony scolded himself for being ridiculous; that was just the way fire sounded.

By the light of the oven, he made out the figure of Mr. Todd, sitting on the floor and cradling a woman in his arms. It took him a moment to realize that both Mr. Todd and the woman were dead and covered in blood. Blood dripped from a slash in his throat onto the woman. Blood stained his face, his clothes, and his hair. Blood pooled on the floor. The smell of flesh on fire permeated the room.

"Oh, God," Anthony heard himself say. He started to bury his face in his hands, but Johanna wouldn't let him. She pulled him further down the stairs until they were standing on the bake house floor.

"There's more," she said, gesturing to another corner of the room. He squinted and saw two more bodies. He recognized one as Beadle Bamford. The top of his head had come off, revealing what looked like his brains. The other had been stabbed in the face so many times that he was unrecognizable.

"That was my father," Johanna told him. She gave him another hard look. "Are you going to be sick?"

"No," he lied. He could feel the bile rising in his throat. The smell coming from the oven threatened to choke him. Soon he was on his knees, emptying the contents of his stomach into the gutter that ran through the room while she watched. When he was done, he stood and wiped his mouth.

"I'm sorry," he mumbled, feeling thoroughly ashamed of himself. She started to say something, but was interrupted by a voice coming from the direction of the grinder.

"You have to grind it three times." The voice belonged to a young boy. When Anthony looked, he saw Mrs. Lovett's Toby, smiling insanely and turning the grinder's large handle. He was covered in grime. "Three times," he told them. "That's the secret. That's all."

* * *

As he made his way upstairs with Johanna, Anthony felt as though they were climbing out of Hell. The blood, the corpses, the terrible smell…it was all too awful to be real. Dazed, he followed Johanna into Mrs. Lovett's kitchen and sat at one of the tables. Johanna joined him. Her face was as white as chalk. For a long time, neither of them spoke.

"We have to tell the police," he said at last. She shook her head violently. "We don't have a choice, Johanna," he told her. "Four people have been killed. We can't just leave."

"Five," she corrected him. "There was a body in the oven, too. Didn't you smell it burning?"

"You're right," he said, feeling nauseous again. "There were five."

"We can't go to the police," she argued. "Do you know what we've done tonight? We've given them every reason to hang us. They'll hang that boy, too, or at least lock him in a madhouse. Is that what you want?"

"No," he replied. He thought of the way Mrs. Lovett had tousled Toby's hair the night before. Now Mrs. Lovett might be burnt to ashes, and Toby might be mad for good. It didn't seem possible. He looked at Johanna. "We'll catch the next stagecoach out of town," he promised. "We'll have to go to Portsmouth first, because I told my sister I'd visit. After that, we can go to Plymouth or anywhere else."

"That sounds nice," she said. They rose from the table and started for the door. "I didn't know you had a sister," she told him. "Is she your only one?"

"No, I have four sisters and a brother. They'll want to meet you." He opened the door to the yard and held it for her. "Of course," he admitted, "I never told them we were getting married. It all happened so-"

He stopped when he saw the two policemen standing right outside the door. One was fat and middle-aged, with an elaborate blond mustache; the other was lean and young, with a face like a hawk. Before Anthony knew what was happening, they had him on the ground with his face pressed against the cobblestones. Presently, he felt a knee in the small of his back; he suspected that it belonged to the fat peeler. Somebody pulled his arms behind his back and cuffed his hands together.

"Mr. Anthony Hope," one of the peelers barked, "you are under arrest for the kidnapping of Miss Johanna Barker. We have orders to take you to Newgate."

This was followed by a swift, vicious kick to his ribs.

"That was unnecessary, Wolfe," said the peeler who had spoken before. However, he sounded amused. "C'mon, get him in the van. Bamford will be happy to see this one."

With that, they pulled him to his feet and dragged him towards the police van. He tried to get one last look at Johanna; he hoped to assure her that they would both be fine, somehow. When he craned his neck to see the shop, however, she had already disappeared.

_Author's Note: I know I ended this on a bit of a cliffy. Honestly, it's because I need to do a little more research about Newgate. Also, my brain got tired. I also know that I'm being inordinately cruel to Anthony. I mean, sending him to prison after giving him that Dickensian childhood and arranging for him to be raped at sea? Sweet Jesus._


	16. In the Dark

_Author's Note: Hello, everyone, and thanks for reviewing! Recently, I reread my story to make sure I didn't make any continuity mistakes when I realized that my interpretation of Anthony hyperventilates, gets the shakes, and has psychosomatic stomachaches like crazy. It's probably the stress of being in this fic... _

_Disclaimer: Not mine. _

**Chapter Sixteen: In the Dark**

"You shouldn't have kicked him," the fat blond peeler said mournfully. From his brief time in the police van, Anthony knew that his name was Wilson. Wolfe, the hawkish peeler, was the one who had kicked him. "Bamford won't like having to wait while the prison surgeon makes sure his ribs aren't broken. You might've gotten us demoted."

"What's the use in seeing to his ribs?" Wolfe asked. "Bamford'll just break them again. That's not all he'll break, either."

Anthony stared at the door of the van, paying little attention to the conversation of the peelers. He knew that Beadle Bamford was in no position to do anything to him. Besides, he was too busy thinking of a plan to escape the police van. The door was bolted from the inside. He would have no trouble opening it if he could somehow get rid of his handcuffs. He wracked his brain for ideas. Nothing.

He imagined Johanna hiding in the dark pie shop, scared and shaky from her ordeals. She had nowhere to go, nobody to help her, and nothing in the world but his bag. The picture made him unhappier than he'd been in a long time.

"Look at the poor blighter," he heard Wilson say. There was a trace of pity in his voice. "I'd feel sorry for him if I didn't know what he meant to do to Miss Barker."

Wolfe snorted.

"He probably doesn't even know what goes where," he told Wilson. After a pause, he added, "Maybe we ought to show him."

Anthony stopped breathing for a moment. Caught between a past too bewildering to understand and a future too awful to contemplate, he'd taken some refuge in the present. He hadn't thought to be afraid of this. Now the peelers were both staring at him. Wolfe had a nasty grin on his face, but Wilson was pale.

"Look, Wolfe," he said, nervously stroking his mustache. "Look, I'm only doing this because it's my job. I don't approve of what Bamford does. Not at all. I'd report him in a second, I would, but my lad's got to be apprenticed next year, and-"

"Hold him down for me, then. That's not too different from what you're doing already."

Wilson stroked his mustache and seemed to consider this. Anthony tried to keep his breathing under control. It was so rapid that it made the pain in his side worse. _I'll kill them if they try anything, _he thought savagely. _I don't care if I'm in handcuffs. It's not going to happen again. _

"Bamford won't like it if someone has a turn before him," Wilson pointed out, after a great deal of mustache-stroking. Wolfe groaned. Suddenly, Anthony had a wonderful, terrible idea.

Two years previously, on the _Bountiful_, he'd gone into the hold for some cotton and stumbled across the ship's carpenter and Mr. Price, the second mate. They'd broken apart the moment they'd noticed Anthony, but not too quickly for Anthony to notice the carpenter's hand inside Mr. Price's trousers.

Anthony had to suppress a smile as he remembered the rest. After threatening to have him flogged for some imaginary offense, Mr. Price had given him his trousers and told him to wash out the stains. ("You'd know something about that," he'd said, which still made Anthony's ears burn.) The carpenter, on the other hand, had been unusually nice. He'd stopped calling Anthony "the baby" and humming "The Handsome Cabin Boy" in his hearing. When the ship docked in Venice, he'd even slipped him a quarter of his wages, which Anthony had used to buy a decent pair of boots for himself and a black shawl for Maggie.

Now that incident was about to help him again. He took a deep breath, winced because it hurt his side, and glared at the peelers.

"What makes you think I don't know what goes where?" he asked loudly. The peelers jumped a foot off the bench. "What makes you think I don't know all about it? I was raised on a ship, not in a convent. I know how to do all sorts of things."

Wilson fidgeted in his seat. He seemed nearly as uncomfortable and miserable as Anthony felt. Wolfe just kept grinning.

"What sorts of things, boy?" he asked slyly. "Do you mean you can do card tricks?"

"I mean indecent things," Anthony replied through gritted teeth. Wolfe started laughing. Anthony wondered if he had used the wrong word. "I can do things," he continued, feeling more foolish by the second, "and, if I use my hands, well, the beadle never has to know about it."

The peelers exchanged dumbstruck glances.

"He's a funny one, isn't he?" Wolfe remarked finally. "He has a point, though. Bamford wouldn't know."

"Why are you doing this?" Wilson asked Anthony, taking no notice of his colleague. His gaze was so pitying that Anthony could hardly stand it. "We aren't going to let you go. You know that."

"I know. I want to do it anyway," he lied, feeling as though he had just mortgaged a piece of his soul to the devil. _It's for Johanna, _he reminded himself. _If this works, we'll be together again and it won't matter how ugly and sordid this is._

"Never mind why he wants to do it," Wolfe said impatiently. "Go tell the driver to pull over. I'll take off the handcuffs."

Wilson shook his head, but went to the little window and began speaking with the driver. Wolfe motioned for Anthony to stand and started to remove his handcuffs. The moment his hands were free, Anthony grabbed the handcuffs, turned to Wolfe, and struck him across the face with them. As Wolfe sank to his knees, clutching his hawkish face, Anthony made a dash for the door and began struggling with the bolt.

"Little bitch!" Wolfe cried. Wilson stopped talking to driver and drew in a sharp breath. Then he lunged at Anthony. He had just grabbed a fistful of his jacket when the door flew open, allowing Anthony to jump out of the van and into the London night. If he ran fast enough, he hoped, he would be able to find Johanna and flee town with her.

Unfortunately, gravity had other plans. He found himself lying face down in the street with a burning pain in his left arm and a sickening crack ringing in his ears. He could hear the carriage rolling away from him and the peelers shouting at the driver to go back, go back. Slowly, he staggered to his feet. His eyes watered so much that he couldn't see properly. Careful to hold his arm against his chest, he broke into a limping run.

He ran through narrow alleys where no carriage could follow him. He ran through dark courts and streets which he'd never seen before. He took a strange, twisted route that made no sense to anybody but him. Somehow, he found his way to 186 Fleet Street anyway.

A large, screaming crowd was gathered round the shop. That was the first thing he noticed. As he pushed his way through the mob, he could make out the distinct smell of vomit. He saw several people on their hands and knees, retching. Others were sobbing wildly and tearing at their hair. One lady had fainted. With increasing dread, he made his way to the front of the throng. Policemen were carrying bloodstained burlap sacks out of the shop. Anthony knew that they could only contain corpses.

"What happened?" he asked the man standing next to him. The man stared at him in disbelief.

"Haven't you heard?" he inquired. "That new barber's been killing half his customers and giving them to his landlady to bake into pies. They were just found dead in the bake house, along with the ones they killed. Nobody knows who did it."

For a long moment, Anthony thought the man was making a joke, albeit not a very good one. Then he remembered the screaming, sobbing, vomiting crowd. He didn't want it to make sense, but it did. The memory of devouring one of Mrs. Lovett's pies last night came into his mind unbidden. Had there been anything left in his stomach, he would've been sick all over the sidewalk.

"Are you hurt?" asked the man, eyeing the way Anthony held his arm. "There's a surgeon not far from here. I can take you to him. Honestly, I don't fancy staying round here for long. The mob's going to be screaming for somebody's head soon."

"I'm fine."

"A drink, then. I think we could both use one."

Briefly, Anthony considered it. The world seemed extremely hostile at the moment, but this man was friendly. Besides, he welcomed the idea of sitting in a dark public house and not thinking about anything. He wouldn't get drunk this time. Then he remembered Johanna.

"No, but thank you," he told the man. "I'm looking for someone. A girl. A pretty, pale girl with yellow hair, dressed in sailor's clothes. Have you seen her?"

The man laughed.

"Are you sure you're fine?" he asked. "You sound as though you've been imagining things."

"Never mind," Anthony mumbled, deciding to ask somebody else once he felt a little steadier. They stood together and watched the policemen load the sacks into a wagon for a while before the man spoke again.

"I didn't tell you the strangest part," he said. "The police had some of the neighbors go inside and identify the bodies. Mrs. Mooney, the woman who has a pie shop up the street, was one of them. When she came out of the shop again, she said that Mr. Todd wasn't really Mr. Todd. Once she got a good look at his face, she said, she saw that he was Benjamin Barker, this barber who got himself transported years ago." The man paused. "I say it's funny, because Barker was a good-natured sort. Nobody could believe it when he was caught stealing from his customers. Nobody could see him with his wife and baby and believe anything bad about him at all."

* * *

For a long time, Anthony wandered through the crowd, asking anybody who would listen if he or she had seen Johanna. In the back of his mind was the question of how much he would tell her about her father. She deserved to know that Benjamin Barker had been a good man who had loved her and her mother. It might relieve some of the shame she'd been forced to carry for so many years. He could tell her that, leaving out the part about Benjamin Barker somehow turning into Sweeney Todd, returning to London, killing dozens of innocent people, and tricking other innocent people into cannibalism.

On the other hand, he could tell her everything.

_Does she deserve to be protected from knowing that her own father did such horrible things,_ he wondered, _or does she deserve to know the truth? Is it better to keep her in the dark?_

Mr. Todd had kept him in the dark. He realized that now. Mr. Todd had told him the same story he was thinking of telling Johanna and nothing else. In the end, Mr. Todd had not protected him. Mr. Todd had betrayed his trust.

He would not be like Mr. Todd. He would tell Johanna everything. That is, if he found her. Nobody he asked had seen a pretty, pale girl with yellow hair dressed in sailor's clothes. Eventually, he started asking if anyone had seen a yellow-haired boy. After all, she might have fixed her hair and tucked it under his father's cap again. But no one had seen a yellow-haired boy, either. Finally, he concluded that she had left the shop.

_Clever girl, _he thought, as somebody jostled his bad arm. He was trying not to panic. It would do no good for him or Johanna. _Where could she have gone, though?_

Before he could answer this question, he saw Wolfe and Wilson heading towards him. Wolfe's lips were caked in dried blood, and his nose appeared to be broken. He glowered at Anthony, who immediately tried to disappear into the crowd. The mob, however, seemed to smell his desperation in the same way that sharks smell blood. They closed their ranks and herded him towards the peelers. Soon Wolfe and Wilson had him by the arms. When Wilson handcuffed him, the mob cheered.

_They don't mean it, _he told himself. _People in mobs do things they don't really mean. _He bit his lip to keep from crying out at the pain in his arm. The mob was growing louder and angrier. Their cheerful hostility was turning into something more sinister. They seemed to think his arrest had something to do with Mr. Todd. Suddenly he realized what they were doing. They were screaming for his head.

"Murderer!" one voice shrieked. Other voices joined in the refrain until it seemed as though the whole world were screaming it at him. "Murderer! Murderer! Murderer!" It roared in his ears like the ocean during a storm.

_Perhaps drowning is like this, _he thought before he passed out. _Poor Mr. Todd with all that noise in his ears. I'm glad Father taught me how to swim. I won't drown. I'll never drown._

_Author's Note: That's what happens when nice Victorian boys try to use their sexualities. They break their arms. It's different when tortured, murderous Victorian men do it, naturally. _

_Reviews, of course, would make me very happy._


	17. Mrs Bamford

_Author's Note: Sorry about the wait. My classes are nearly at an end. I'll be able to update more often then. I hope._

_Disclaimer: Not mine, except for Wolfe, Wilson, Mrs. Bamford, and Colleen. _

**Chapter Seventeen: Mrs. Bamford**

"Anthony. Anthony Hope. Wake up."

Anthony did not want to wake up. Something heavy and woolen was draped over him. He felt warm and comfortable, as though he had been underwater for a long time. _Drowning, _he thought. _It's not so bad, really, once you get used to it._

"C'mon, Anthony. C'mon, wake up."

The voice that threatened to pull him out of his half-conscious state sounded familiar, but his muddled brain wouldn't let him place it. It couldn't belong to either of the peelers. They wouldn't have used his name. Nobody alive in London called him by his name but Johanna. For a second, he dared to hope that she had found him somehow, that he would see her if he just opened his eyes.

When he opened his eyes, however, he was stretched across the bench of the police van with a peeler's greatcoat draped over him. Wilson was standing over him with a relieved look on his face.

"Good," he said. "You're awake."

Anthony blinked. The coat and the voice belonged to Wilson, after all. _Nice of him, _he thought, _but strange. He was going to let…help…well, I won't think about that now. _He was too disoriented to think about anything now. Slowly, he sat up and handed Wilson his greatcoat. His side felt as though it were on fire, and the pain in his arm made him dizzy.

"Thank you," he said. Wilson shook his head.

"Don't thank me, lad. I feel bad enough as it is."

Anthony considered telling him that Beadle Bamford was dead. Then he pushed away the thought. _Let him feel bad, _he decided. _He's not doing anything to stop what he thinks is going to happen. He ought to feel bad. _So he kept quiet.

As he followed Wilson out of the van, he expected to see the famous black Newgate knocker. Instead, he found himself standing in front of a tall, narrow brick house. Wolfe stood on the front step, stomping his feet and furtively smoking a pipe. The bruises on his face were a violent purple. When he saw Anthony, his eyes narrowed.

"Looks like the little hothead woke up," he remarked. "I'll wager ten pounds he's been whoring himself out between voyages. Probably got the idea from his mother. Am I right, sailor?"

"There's no need for that," said Wilson, before Anthony could think of an adequate reply.

"No need!" Wolfe let out a short, mirthless laugh. "That son of a bitch broke my nose."

"You solicited him."

"_He _solicited _me_!"

"Honestly, Wolfe, we don't have time for this. Let's just say you and Mr. Hope are even."

"Why aren't we at Newgate?" Anthony asked. The peelers looked at him briefly.

"We're making a little stop," Wolfe explained, baring his teeth in what was probably supposed to be a grin. "This is Beadle Bamford's house."

"It's only for the night," Wilson added apologetically. Anthony shuddered. What the beadle could have done to him in an entire night didn't bear thinking about. He wondered what would happen when the peelers found out that the beadle wasn't home.

_Well, I guess I'll find out soon, _he told himself, as Wilson marched him to the door and knocked on it twice. After a few minutes, a yawning young maid answered the door.

"What is it you want, sirs?" she asked with an Irish accent. She glanced from Wilson to Anthony to Wolfe, and then back at Anthony. "I suppose you want the beadle. There's a pretty young man in handcuffs with you, after all. Who else could you want? Well, he's not home and it's nearly ten o'clock, so you can take the young man somewhere else."

"Look here, you little hussy," Wolfe started, as the maid began to close the door. Anthony stared at her blankly. He had little notion of how maids were supposed to behave, but he was sure this wasn't it.

Before the door could slam shut, a voice like sugar being ladled into a silver teacup floated from inside the house.

"Let the gentlemen in, Colleen," it called. "Please forgive her, gentlemen. It's very trying, you know, for a girl to be civil at such a late hour. I'm sure you understand."

"Of course, mum," Wilson agreed meekly. Colleen blushed, ducked her head, and opened the door to let them in. Wolfe bared his teeth and hissed at her on his way in. Apparently, it was also very trying for him to be civil at such a late hour. Anthony avoided looking at her as she led them into the dark, cramped entrance hall.

A plump, youngish woman with pink cheeks and glossy black hair waited for them inside. She beamed at them as though they were her lady friends coming for a social visit, rather than two policemen and a scared, shabby young man.

"I do apologize for Colleen," she said smoothly. "She's really a lovely girl. I suppose you're here for my husband?"

"Yes, Mrs. Bamford," Wilson replied, "but your maid said he wasn't home yet. Do you know when he'll be returning?"

_Mrs. Bamford? _Anthony wondered. _Her husband? Beadle Bamford? Beadle Bamford has a wife? But who would want to…oh, that poor woman._

"I'm not sure," said Mrs. Bamford. She turned to Anthony and smiled. "Forgive me. I seem to have forgotten my manners. What did you say your name was?"

_I never said a thing, _he thought. When he opened his mouth to speak, though, nothing came out. Wilson answered for him.

"This is Anthony Hope, mum. He's the one who tried to kidnap Miss Barker. We were supposed to leave him here with your husband, but-"

"So, you're the vile, corrupting young sailor?" Mrs. Bamford inquired, interrupting Wilson. "La, you look like a choirboy. I half-expected you'd have horns." She turned back to the peelers. "Leave him with me. We'll wait for my husband together."

"I don't think that would be wise," said Wilson. "I have to warn you, Mrs. Bamford. When we arrested him, he assaulted Wolfe."

"Broke my nose," Wolfe added, gesturing to the relevant organ. "Besides, he nearly threatened to kill Judge Turpin a few months back."

"Nearly?" Mrs. Bamford raised her eyebrows. "That's serious indeed."

"He has a vicious temper," Wolfe said, nodding eagerly. Anthony couldn't help but think that he was one to talk. "We couldn't possibly leave him alone with you."

"I won't be alone with him," she replied. "Nathan will keep us company." When Wolfe only furrowed his brow in response, she added, "You remember Nathan. He's been my manservant since I married Simon."

_Simon? _Anthony wondered. He had never imagined Beadle Bamford as having a first name, and certainly not one like Simon.

"That old fellow," Wilson added. "Strong as a horse and near as big."

"Thank you, Wilson," Wolfe said stiffly. He glared at his partner. "Of course I remember Nathan. I think it'd be fine for Mrs. Bamford to wait with the prisoner if he was there. Don't you?"

"I suppose so," Wilson replied, although he did not sound convinced. "It can't be long before Beadle Bamford returns, anyway."

"No, not long at all," Mrs. Bamford said sweetly. Anthony looked at his feet. He tried not to think about Beadle Bamford with his brains spilled across the bake house floor, but he couldn't help it. "May I ask why my husband wants to see the young man?"

Abruptly, Anthony lifted his gaze. Mrs. Bamford's eyes were as wide and empty of purpose as any that could be found on a china doll. Colleen stood by the door at the back of the entrance hall and snickered. Wolfe stared intently at the molding on the ceiling. Meanwhile, Wilson stammered as he tried to invent a reasonable explanation.

"Well, Mrs. Bamford, mum, you see….well, you see, your husband…he takes a great interest in the public welfare. In the reformation of criminals, I mean. He takes such a great interest that he needs…he tells us to bring them to his own home and he…oh, Mrs. Bamford, I don't know these things. I just follow orders. Please don't ask me to explain."

"Very well," she told him. There was a trace of frost in her words. "I'll make sure not to ask you again. In fact, I'd better let you gentlemen get back to your work. It's a fearfully busy night. At least, that's what I've heard."

"Busy," Wilson repeated. He was almost in tears. Anthony was almost sorry. "Yes, busy. Fearfully busy. Yes, we'd better be going. Let's go, Wolfe."

"Don't forget to take off the young man's handcuffs," Mrs. Bamford reminded the peelers, before they could turn on their heels and walk out the door. She smiled at Anthony. "I don't think I could manage them myself."

Wilson obliged her with shaking hands.

"I'm sorry," he whispered to Anthony. "I can't tell you how sorry I am."

"Then help me," Anthony whispered back. There was no reply. In a second, he felt the handcuffs come off. His arms fell to his sides. Immediately, he clutched the left one to his chest, but that didn't make it hurt any less. As he stared at the retreating backs of the peelers, he wondered if he could make a run for it. The door wasn't locked. The peelers would be driving away soon. He could handle Mrs. Bamford. Perhaps he could even deal with her servants, although he didn't like the sound of Nathan. He just had to wait for the right moment.

"You won't make it out of Cheapside," said Mrs. Bamford. He felt the blood in his veins freeze. Slowly, he turned to look at her. She was still smiling. "I've seen that look before," she told him. "You're thinking of running away, but you won't get far. You're hurt and you're weak and you're tired. They'll catch you in a second."

"I'm not going to run," he replied. And his heart sank because he knew it was the truth. He couldn't run another step. Before his last shock, escape had been possible. Now it was all he could do to stand.

He could hear Mrs. Bamford giving Colleen some instructions about a surgeon. Their voices sounded very far away. He closed his eyes and wished that he were still passed out. The waking world offered no means of escape. All paths were closed to him but one. He had no doubt that he would be found guilty. The late Judge Turpin's influence would make sure of that. He didn't know the penalty for kidnapping, but he knew that it had to be severe. Ostensibly, Benjamin Barker had been transported for stealing a few pounds from his customers' coat pockets. A rich man's ward had to be worth a lot more than a few pounds.

_I might never see Johanna again, _he realized. The weight of this knowledge sat on his chest, heavier than lead. His eyes began to water. He blamed it on his arm. Anthony Hope had gone more than five years without crying in front of another person, after all. He certainly wasn't going to start now.

_Author's Note: I'm still trying to decide on Mrs. Bamford's first name. Any ideas? While we're on the subject, I apologize for calling Beadle Bamford Simon. According to a friend of mine, there's a beadle of that name in the penny dreadful. _


	18. Drowning

_Author's Note: It has been decided that Mrs. Bamford's first name is Winifred. (Thank you, fEmAleNoMad!) Nobody is going to call her by it quite yet, though. Her servants wouldn't be so forward. Neither would Anthony. _

_Disclaimer: I own nobody but Colleen, Nathan, and Dora Winifred Bamford. Okay, I'm just kidding about the Dora part. Did anyone else watch _Arthur_ when they were younger? Wasn't it weird how the title character didn't look like an aardvark? Anyway, I'm getting sidetracked. I don't own _Sweeney Todd_. _

**Chapter Eighteen: Drowning**

"I apologize for my husband's lateness," Mrs. Bamford said, pouring herself another glass of white wine. She sat in a fat red armchair in her parlor. Anthony sat across from her on the couch. "I'm sure he would have been on time if he'd known that such a nice-looking young man was waiting for him. Aren't you going to drink your Madeira, Mr. Hope?"

"Yes, mum," Anthony replied. He stared at his still-full glass and wondered if he could pretend to spill its contents by accident. _Probably not, _he decided. _She'll just pour me another glass. _He had no intention of drinking it. It might have been drugged and, besides, he knew that he couldn't keep it down. After hearing about the meat pies, he suspected that he'd never be hungry again.

"I know it has a reputation as a ladies' drink," she told him, "but it gets you drunk. You'll need it tonight. Does your arm feel any better?"

"Yes, mum," he repeated. After the peelers had left, Mrs. Bamford had told Colleen to fetch a surgeon. Less than half an hour later, a very sleepy and very irritable surgeon had arrived and bandaged up Anthony's arm and made a sling for it. He'd done a good job, too, considering how sleepy and irritable he was. "Thank you for calling the surgeon. You didn't need to do that."

"Oh, you're welcome, ducky." She twisted round in her chair and looked at Nathan, a giant of an old man who looked as though he'd been carved out of granite. "Mr. Hope seems to think that I've poisoned his drink," she told him. "Will you show him that it's safe?"

Nathan nodded, walked to the couch, and motioned for Anthony to hand over his glass. Anthony obliged. Nathan took a sip and then gave the glass back to Anthony. Nothing happened.

"Satisfied?" Mrs. Bamford asked crisply. Anthony nodded, although he couldn't help but think that Nathan was much bigger than he was. Naturally, if there was anything in the Madeira, it wouldn't affect him as much. He took a sip anyway. After all, Beadle Bamford would never come home. "I'm glad you've decided to be sensible. It'll help you in the end."

_I'm not sensible, _he thought, as he took another sip. _I don't know anyone less sensible than I am. _To his dismay, it tasted wonderful. It was much better than Mrs. Lovett's ale or the half-bottle of rum he'd ill-advisedly drunk in Shawnessy's cousin's tavern.

"He's going to have his way whether you drink or not," she continued. He fixed his gaze on the wineglass. It didn't matter that the beadle was dead. He still didn't want to hear about it. "There's nothing you can do. There's nothing I can do. We're too weak. That's our trouble. He's strong and we're weak, so he's going to have his way. Do you understand me?"

He nodded. He didn't want to agree with her, but he couldn't pretend that he didn't understand. His gaze traveled to his right wrist. There were angry red marks where the handcuffs had chafed his skin. He hadn't noticed them before.

"We wouldn't be chatting like this if he were home," she went on. "You'd be leaning over that coffee table. Do you know where he'd be if you were leaning over the coffee table?"

"Yes, mum." He was grateful for her habit of ending her speeches with yes-or-no questions, because he hardly knew how to respond to her statements.

"Meanwhile, I'd be upstairs in my bedroom. Alone, of course. Pretending that I couldn't hear him make those noises. Pretending that I couldn't hear you scream. Would you scream?"

He shook his head. He knew for a fact that he wouldn't have.

"You're a nice young man," she told him. "You're little more than a boy, really. I have no reason to hate you, but I'd let that happen to you. Isn't that awful?"

She burst into tears. Helpless, he watched her as she sobbed into her white gloves. He knew that it wouldn't do much good to tell her that her husband was dead. It would come as a shock no matter how badly the beadle had treated her. However, he knew that he had to say something. He looked at Nathan's expressionless face. No help there.

"What if he didn't come home tonight?" Anthony asked finally. She lifted her head from her hands and stared at him with bloodshot eyes.

"I don't know what you mean," she said. Her voice wavered slightly. "Of course my husband will come home tonight. He's just off on a spree. Probably with that bloody barber."

Anthony felt the color drain out of his face. Nathan frowned, probably for unrelated reasons. Mrs. Bamford covered her mouth and giggled.

"Sorry, ducky," she told Anthony. "I didn't think I'd have to watch my language in the company of a sailor. My mistake. Would you like more Madeira?"

He looked at his glass. It was empty. _For someone who doesn't drink, _he thought, _I seem to drink a lot. _He decided to think about that later.

"Yes, please," he said. As Mrs. Bamford refilled his glass, he added, "What if he's sleeping it off somewhere? What if he doesn't come home until tomorrow? What would you do with me, then?"

"Well…" She looked thoughtful as she handed him his glass. "I suppose that it's too late for the police to take you to Newgate. I couldn't let you go free, either, if that's what you mean. I won't break the law." She paused to refill her own glass. "I'd have to put you up for the night, wouldn't I?" she mused. "With Nathan, probably. You wouldn't escape with Nathan watching over you."

"No," Anthony agreed. "I'd have to be a fool to try. He's stronger than your husband, isn't he?"

"Yes, he is." She squinted at Nathan. "If I put you up in Nathan's room," she said slowly, "and my husband happened to come home in the middle of the night…well, he wouldn't look for you there. He wouldn't dare. I could tell him that the police took you to Newgate when they saw he wasn't home. After all, that's what he told them to do."

"Exactly," Anthony replied. He made a point of looking at the grandfather clock in the corner. "It's a quarter past eleven. Don't you think that's late?"

"Very late," she concurred. "La, Mr. Hope, you look like you're about to drop off. I'd better tell Colleen to make the other bed in Nathan's room. The cook's son used to sleep there until…well, suffice it to say we had a hard time finding another cook after that one left."

She reached for a little glass bell that rested on the end table. Before she could ring it, Anthony stopped her.

"Wait," he said. She raised her eyebrows expectantly. The bell was pinched between her fingers, poised to ring. "I never tried to kidnap Johanna. She wanted to come with me. I never would've made her do anything she didn't want to do."

"I know, ducky," she replied, so gently that his eyes started to water again. "I've known Johanna since she was two years old. She led no kind of life with that man. She would've run away with anyone at all."

* * *

He was on the _Bountiful _again, gazing at the London skyline. He could feel the wind on his face and smell the fish-and-sewage stench of the Thames. It felt so good to know that he could go anywhere he wanted. He could do anything he wanted with his future; he could conceal and forget the sad, sordid parts of his past. Really, he was very lucky.

Suddenly, he heard a voice behind him. It was low and soft, but with an edge as sharp as a razor. He knew that voice. He had heard the words before, but he hadn't really listened to them.

"You are young. Life has been kind to you. You will learn."

He turned round. Sure enough, Mr. Todd was standing behind him. His pale skin glowed like moonlight. Anthony wanted to run, but his legs wouldn't move. Nothing would move. He couldn't even close his eyes.

"I can't hurt you, Anthony," Mr. Todd said. "Not anymore. Nothing to fear."

He spoke in a tone meant for spooked horses, but Anthony couldn't get past the irrefutable fact that Mr. Todd was dead.

"You're dead," he pointed out. He felt rather stupid for saying something so obvious, but he thought that it needed to be said.

"Exactly," Mr. Todd replied, smiling in his eerie way. "Can a dead man betray you? Can he disregard the fact that you saved his life and put you in danger in order to further his own means?"

"I guess not," Anthony replied, although he wasn't sure. If a dead man could talk like a live one, there was no telling what else he could do. "You didn't mean for me to get hurt, though. You didn't mean for Johanna to get hurt, either. She was your own daughter. You must've known that. You couldn't have wanted her to get hurt. It was a mistake."

"Is that what you believe?" Mr. Todd snapped. Anthony tried to take a step backwards, but his feet were stuck to the deck. "Are you really that daft? I killed dozens of people who had never done me wrong. I'm the reason you got arrested. Make no mistake about that. Do you think the police would have found you and Johanna so quickly if I hadn't told?"

"It was a mistake," Anthony repeated. He wanted it to be true. He needed it to be true. "You used to be good," he persisted. "The man in front of the shop said so. You were a good barber. You had a wife and a baby. You loved them. Then you were transported to Australia, but you were innocent. You were sent away because a man with too much power wanted your wife. When you came back, you were different. Of course you were different after everything that had happened to you, but you weren't bad. I never thought you were bad."

Mr. Todd let out a short, mirthless laugh.

"You'll never set the Thames on fire, Anthony," he said. "What difference does it make if I was good? You're terribly proud of how good you are, I know. You're always so quick to believe the best of people, so quick to help anyone in trouble. Where has that gotten you?"

"It was a mistake," Anthony said once more. Mr. Todd ignored him.

"Newgate," he continued. "It's gotten you a dark, lonely cell in Newgate. It's gotten you a girl you might never see again, who would have run away with anyone at all. It's gotten you a girl who probably doesn't love you."

"Johanna loves me." Anthony felt his hands clench into fists. He could do without anything else, but he had to hold on to Johanna. "She told me so. You can say what you like about me, but don't talk about her that way."

"It's gotten dozens of people killed," Mr. Todd continued, ignoring him. "What good was your bloody goodness if you couldn't stop me from killing them?"

"I didn't know," Anthony protested. "I couldn't have known. Nobody knew what you were doing."

"It happened right under your nose, Anthony. You knew that I was an escaped convict. You knew that I had a dangerous temper. Do you remember the first time you lost Johanna? Weren't you afraid for your life when I told you to leave? Didn't you hear me shouting at Mrs. Lovett? What did you think "I had him" meant?"

"I wasn't thinking about that. I was thinking about-"

"Johanna?" Mr. Todd interrupted. "Well, you didn't do her a lot of good, did you? All you did for her was land her in that loony bin. Thanks to your carelessness and cowardice, she killed a man. Look at your hands, Anthony. Are they clean?"

Anthony looked down at his hands. They were dripping with blood. Bewildered, he lifted his gaze to look at Mr. Todd, but nothing was there. No ship, no Thames, no London, no sky. There was just the starless night, and he was drowning in it.

* * *

He woke with a start and found himself lying in the bed that had belonged to Mrs. Bamford's former cook's son. He was breathing too hard and his shirt was drenched in sweat. In the next bed, Nathan snored heavily. He felt sick again and had to lean over the side of the bed. Before falling asleep, he'd had the foresight to place the basin from the nightstand on the floor. Predictably, the Madeira came up. When he was finished, he lay back down and closed his eyes.

_Just a dream, just a dream, _he told himself. Then he began to cry. He knew that it wouldn't do him any good. Only those who still had hope could benefit from tears. He knew this, but he still couldn't help crying.

By the time he was done, he felt foolish and weak and very, very tired. He also felt slightly better. Nothing had changed for him, but his exhaustion prevented him from feeling it as much as he might have otherwise. Soon he fell into an uneasy sleep.

_Author's Note: Weird, huh? By the way, I'm sorry for not giving any hint of Johanna's whereabouts. Next chapter, I promise. _


	19. Newgate

_Author's Note: Despite all appearances, this is a new chapter. Well, it's actually more like half a new chapter. I didn't like the original Chapter Nineteen very much, so I rewrote it. I felt like the first part was mostly pointless and could have been a lot shorter. Also, the end was so awkwardly placed that it made it difficult for me to start Chapter Twenty, which is why I've been so slow to update. I think that this will get things on track again. If you've already read the original Chapter Nineteen, you can skip the first two sections without missing anything, unless you want to see what I cut. _

_Disclaimer: Tim Burton directed the movie, Stephen Sondheim and Hugh Wheeler wrote the musical that it was based on, Christopher Bond wrote the play that the musical was based on, and some anonymous Victorian people came up with the penny dreadful that the play was based on. I suppose that the penny dreadful was based on some urban legend or very badly documented historical figure, but, whatever the case, I don't own anything except for the stray original character. I just write fanfiction so I can take out my Jocasta complex on Anthony Hope._

**Chapter Nineteen: Newgate**

"I can't wait to see the look on Wolfe's face," Colleen said, as she wiped down Mrs. Bamford's kitchen table the following morning. She looked at Anthony, who sat across from where she was working. "It'll make his blood boil to see you walk straight."

Anthony nodded. He was too tired to comprehend exactly what she'd said, but he didn't want to be rude. Then he looked at his plate and wondered how it was possible to be so hungry yet so nauseated by the sight of food.

"He's a nasty piece of work," she continued, "but you know that."

"Colleen," Nathan warned, keeping his eyes on the newspaper. He sat next to Anthony, in case he tried to run again. It was only the second time Anthony had heard him speak. The first time had been to tell Colleen to be quiet while he read the latest installment of _Dombey and Son_.

"Well, he is." Colleen eyed Anthony's untouched breakfast. "You know, you'll be hungry later if you don't eat something now."

"I know," Anthony replied. He picked up his fork and started poking holes in his toast. He knew that it was only dry bread. It had nothing to do with Mrs. Lovett's meat pies. Nothing in this bright, warm kitchen had anything to do with what he'd seen on Fleet Street. Besides, it wouldn't do any good to starve himself to death. There had to be a chance that he'd meet Johanna again, even if he couldn't see it. He'd had such bad luck recently that it had to change soon, just to balance things out.

He picked up his toast and took a bite. It tasted burnt. He suspected that everything would, at least for a while. Then Colleen started to hum "The Ballad of Barbara Allen" and he thought of something that he could still do.

"Do you know what Miss Barker looks like, miss?" he asked. She stopped humming and gave him an odd look.

"Sure I do," she replied. "The judge used to bring her over to visit, before she went mad. Why?"

"Would you recognize her if you saw her?" he asked. "Would you know her if she wasn't dressed the way she usually is? Even if she was dressed as a boy?"

"I suppose so." She gave him an odd look. "Why would Miss Barker be dressed as a boy, though?"

"Never mind that." He glanced at Nathan, who was still squinting at the paper, and turned to Colleen again. "If you see Miss Barker, tell her what's happened to me. Tell her I love her and I'm very sorry. Tell her I have family in Portsmouth if she needs somewhere to go. They live on Peacock Lane. She still has my bag, I think. Tell her she can sell everything I own if she needs the money. Can you remember all of that?"

"I guess." She paused for a moment and wrinkled her nose. "I'll tell her that you went to Newgate, you love her, you're sorry, you have family on Peacock Lane in Portsmouth, and you don't mind if she sells your things. Is that right?"

"Exactly." He smiled at her. "Thank you, Miss Colleen."

She rolled her eyes at him and resumed running her towel over the table. As she hummed, Anthony resolved to finish his coffee. He knew he'd need it when the peelers arrived.

* * *

Half an hour later, he heard somebody knock on the front door. Colleen darted out of the kitchen to answer it. Within seconds, she returned with a grimace on her face.

"It's the peelers," she told Anthony. "They say it's time to go."

Slowly, he rose from his chair and followed Colleen up the stairs to the entrance hall. Soon the voices of the peelers became clear.

"Have a heart, now," said Wilson. Wolfe replied with something low and nasty, and Anthony thought of another reason to be thankful for Beadle Bamford's absence.

"Didn't I tell you he was a piece of work?" Colleen whispered, as they came into the entrance hall. The peelers noticed them immediately. Wolfe offered his usual unpleasant smile, but Wilson averted his eyes.

"You look awfully worn out, Mr. Hope," said Wolfe. Wilson elbowed him in the ribs, which made him wince, but didn't seem to discourage him . "Didn't you get enough sleep last night?"

"Plenty," Anthony lied. He didn't expect anybody to believe him. After the dream, he'd slept fitfully, and he knew from the mirror in Nathan's room that he looked it. Still, it was a matter of pride.

"I'm glad to hear that," Wolfe replied, smirking. "Well, don't just stand in the doorway, sailor. We have to take you to Newgate."

"Right," Anthony said. He began to walk towards the peelers and heard Colleen giggling behind him as Wolfe's expression changed from amused to baffled to livid. His blood may not have boiling, but his face was certainly red enough.

"Go back to the door," he barked. Anthony obeyed. Colleen had already disappeared. "Alright," Wolfe said, once he was standing in the doorway again, "now come back here."

"He's not going to do anything different this time," Wilson remarked, but Anthony came back. He could feel Wolfe glaring at him the entire time, as though he had done him a great wrong by not limping.

"Back to the door," Wolfe ordered, and they repeated the process until Mrs. Bamford descended the stairs. She had pink ribbons in her glossy black hair. Anthony thought they looked nice.

"Why are you pacing the floor, ducky?" she asked. Anthony stopped walking and wondered if there was any possible way to answer her question without embarrassing everybody present.

"Wolfe told him to," Wilson explained. Mrs. Bamford turned to Wolfe and smiled.

"Why did you tell Mr. Hope to pace the floor, sir?" she asked him. Wolfe glanced uneasily at Wilson and then at Anthony. Neither offered him help.

"It's not for ladies to know," he finally said. Mrs. Bamford raised her eyebrows.

"Are you saying that you told Mr. Hope to pace the floor for immoral purposes?"

Luckily for Wolfe, Colleen burst into the room before he could give his answer.

"There are two boys at the kitchen door, mum," she announced. Ostensibly, her words were meant for Mrs. Bamford, but her eyes stayed on Anthony. "The older one says he knows you. He's pretty and pale as milk with yellow hair. Do you know anyone like that?"

_Johanna, _Anthony thought. _Johanna's alright. Johanna's alive. Johanna's here and oh God she's so close but I might never see her again but maybe if I run downstairs…_

"Well, we'd better be going," said Wolfe. He grabbed Anthony by his good arm and started pulling him towards the front door. "C'mon, Wilson. We're late as it is."

"I suppose we are," Wilson agreed. "Good day, Mrs. Bamford."

"Good day, gentlemen," she replied. She smiled at Anthony. "Goodbye, ducky. I wish things could have turned out better for you. Please promise me you'll be careful."

Anthony nodded. That was all he could do.

* * *

"Well, lad," said Wilson, once they had arrived at Newgate, "at least it's over now."

Anthony kept his eyes on the ancient turnkey, who was unlocking the iron gate. It hadn't been three days since he'd strolled past that gate and wondered if he should get a copy of the _Newgate Calendar _for his brother and sisters. The prison was just north of the Old Bailey, where he'd spent countless afternoons watching Judge Turpin and Beadle Bamford in case one of them mentioned Johanna's whereabouts. In the last three months, he must have walked by it a thousand times. He'd known that it was the most notorious prison in England, but the rough gray walls had held no terror for him until today.

Now, he felt as though he had something cold and slimy in his stomach. He wished that Wilson would be quiet. Anthony was all for looking on the bright side, but he clearly had years of trouble ahead of him. There was no use in pretending otherwise. As he gazed at one of Newgate's towers, he decided that the man who had designed it must have been a genius. Never had a building made him feel so trapped.

"Puts the fear of God in you, doesn't it?" Wolfe asked. Hoping to avoid further conversation, Anthony nodded. It was only half a lie, really. He was afraid, but not of God. "Well, you certainly need it."

Without thinking, Anthony clenched his fists. He regretted it a second later when pain shot up and down his left arm. He must've flinched, because Wilson shot him a sympathetic look.

"You'll be fine, won't you?" he asked. Anthony almost replied that, yes, the surgeon had told him that his arm would be almost as good as new before the year was out. Then he realized that Wilson was talking about what Beadle Bamford had supposedly done to him. Once he did, he wondered why Wilson had asked him such a ridiculous question. Of course he wouldn't have been fine the morning after _that_. He still wasn't fine from what had happened more than three years ago, no matter how much he had tried to convince himself otherwise.

Finally, the turnkey succeeded in unlocking the gate and ushered him inside. It was at that moment that Anthony remembered that he still needed to give Wilson an answer.

"No," he said. Then he watched Wilson's face fall in the moment that the turnkey took to close the gate. He didn't feel a trace of guilt, and that scared him more than anything.

_Author's Note: In the next chapter, we find out what Johanna and Toby have been up to. Seriously._


	20. Revenge

_Author's Note: So, I haven't updated this story since August of 2009, and I don't think I've posted a whole new chapter since April or May of that year. I tried multiple times to start it, but nothing was happening. This week, though, I tried something new; I started with the scene I really wanted to write instead of the beginning. This is the first thing I've ever written something nonlinearly, even though I've heard that advice a million times, and it's pretty liberating. Also, I got really inspired by some quotes from the 1962 version of _Mutiny on the Bounty_, so that helped. _

_However, I think I ought to warn you that it's been a long time since I wrote Chapter Nineteen. Many things have changed since then. I've finished two years of college, been hired for two jobs, lost my virginity, and gotten my driver's license. I'm less cynical than I was two years ago. I was so much older then, but I'm younger than that now, like in that Bob Dylan song. (I really like Bob Dylan now, too.) It's possible that my writing style has changed, too. I'm still very fond of this fic, but there are things about it that I wouldn't do over again. I would've made Anthony's family background different, for one thing, and maybe not made up so many minor OCs. I'm not going to try to fix those things, though; I'm just going to do my best to finish it and have some fun. That doesn't mean I'm going to end it with aliens blowing up the world or anything, though, so don't worry about that._

_Disclaimer: I don't own _Sweeney Todd_. Or those couple of lines from _Mutiny on the Bounty_._

**Chapter Twenty: Revenge**

When the turnkey led him into Ward Number Ten, the room where all the male prisoners awaiting trial stayed, Anthony found himself wondering exactly what he'd expected from Newgate. He, Maggie, Kate, Lizzy, Rose, and Jimmy had all been raised on the _Newgate Calendar_, which his father had brought home every Christmas. They'd pored over tales of highwaymen, pirates, and wild Scottish cannibals, all of whom were hanged or burnt at the stake. Anthony hadn't anticipated anything that sensational—this was the nineteenth century, after all—but he hadn't predicted that he'd be imprisoned in a largish, dimly lit, whitewashed room with benches lining the walls and perhaps a dozen prisoners, most of whom looked like ordinary factory workers and vagrants. Two of them couldn't have been older than sixteen. The place smelled of unwashed bodies and, underneath that, shit, but it was no worse than many parts of London. Anthony was relieved, of course, but he also felt a little foolish.

_You're probably the only cannibal here, _he thought, _and you didn't even mean to be. _The thought made him feel dizzy and sick, so he left the turnkey and sat on an unoccupied bench. He had the idea that he'd be fine if he sat still and kept quiet until the trial. If nobody noticed him and he didn't get into more trouble, they might…well, it was probably too much to hope that they'd let him go free, but perhaps he'd only be imprisoned or transported for a few years. Even if it was as bad as the _Bountiful_ at its worst, he could get through it, because he'd done it before. Then he'd come home to Johanna and, even if the Mr. Todd in his dream was right and she didn't want him, the world wouldn't end. For a while, he might feel like it had, but he'd find something else to do with himself. Everything would be fine.

Of course, now that he'd thought about it, the future terrified him and made him want to cry until his eyes were weak as Leah's in the Bible. He was more optimistic than he'd been last night, but somehow he felt worse. He leaned against the wall and tried to avoid thinking about anything by remembering all the verses of "South Australia" he'd ever heard.

_And when we went around Cape Horn, heave away, haul away, I wished to God I'd never been born, bound for South Australia, _was running through his head when a gentleman wearing a scarlet coat, poppy-orange trousers, and a bottle-green waistcoat appeared in front of him.

"Allow me to introduce myself," said the colorful gentleman, extending a hand clad in a sky-blue glove. Dazed, Anthony stared up at him. "I am Mr. Byrd, the unofficial wardsman of Ward Number Ten, and you are…?"

"Anthony Hope," Anthony replied, shaking Mr. Byrd's hand. He wasn't sure what else to do. "I'm a sailor," he added, because Mr. Byrd seemed to expect something more. "From Portsmouth."

"I'm very pleased to make your acquaintance, Mr. Hope," said Mr. Byrd, "but, dear God, what happened to your arm?"

Anthony glanced at his sling.

"I jumped off the back of a wagon," he answered. It was true enough. Besides, he thought the peelers would keep their mouths shut about his escape attempt, given their own conduct, so it certainly wouldn't do him any good to talk about it. "I didn't realize how high it was and I landed on my arm."

"Naturally," Mr. Byrd said, but he was frowning and shaking his head a little. Then he glanced at Anthony's boots. "Your laces are untied," he observed. "I'm sure you could eventually manage them with one hand, but do you mind if I…?"

"Oh, I…" Anthony started, but Mr. Byrd had already knelt in front of him and started on his bootlaces. "Thank you," he finished, but Mr. Byrd didn't seem to notice.

"You understand that I am a gentleman fallen on hard times," he said, as he finished tying Anthony's bootlace. "You must not confuse me with the rest of the men here…although many of them are fine fellows, in their way."

He cast an uneasy glance about the room at the other prisoners, most of whom looked considerably rougher than him, before smiling anxiously at Anthony and getting to his feet. Anthony wondered exactly what "fallen on hard times" meant. It couldn't be debt, because debtors had their own part of the prison. Perhaps it was theft.

"Of course, you know what I mean," Mr. Byrd continued, sitting on the bench beside him. "I could tell you were a gentleman the moment you walked in, despite your rather…disheveled state. Blood will tell, you know."

"It's kind of you to say so," Anthony replied, suppressing a laugh. There was really nothing funny about his situation. He was in Newgate, he didn't know what would become of Johanna, and he had inadvertently set a killer upon London. Although he didn't want to die, guilt sometimes weighed so heavily upon his mind that death seemed like the right thing for him. When he wasn't troubled by this slight desire to be dead, he was consumed by an overwhelming dread of the future. There was no reason to laugh at all, but he was too exhausted to care.

"I'm afraid you're mistaken, though," he continued. "My father was a common sailor and my mother was a serving maid before she married him. I'm a very ordinary sailor myself."

As proof, he held out his calloused hand to Mr. Byrd, who grabbed it and began tracing the palm like a fortuneteller. Anthony had not meant for this to happen, but it seemed rude to say so.

"Well, education is what really matters," said Mr. Byrd, frowning over the lines. "I have always said that."

"I did learn to read in Sunday School," Anthony offered. He was rather enjoying himself. "I read all of _Charlotte Temple_ this year, too. Have you heard of it? It's very popular in the States, and it has such fine moral lessons, too."

"Yes, I have heard of _Charlotte Temple_," Mr. Byrd said, releasing his hand. He looked vaguely nauseated. "It's a contemptible piece of literary trash, and you ought to know better."

Anthony couldn't help but snicker. He had actually read _Charlotte Temple_, but he hadn't really liked it much, either. His dislike had nothing to do with its literary merits or lack thereof; he read whatever could be bought cheap at bookstands and didn't think much about whether it was good or not. He'd just hated how the author had been so determined to kill off Charlotte, when all the poor girl had done was fall in love and faint at the worst possible time. He generally preferred stories that ended with somebody getting married or leading the school cricket team to victory, anyway.

Mr. Byrd glared at him. Evidently, he'd noticed the snicker.

"By God, I was trying to _flatter_ you," he said, pursing his lips. "Why will you not let me?"

"I'm sorry," Anthony replied. It was nothing but the truth. Mr. Byrd had tied his bootlace, after all, and it was shabby to make fun of him. His admission was troubling, though. "But why on Earth would you want to flatter me?"

"It is just my way," Mr. Byrd said, a little too quickly. He averted his eyes and brought out a big embroidered handkerchief, which he used to wipe his forehead. Anthony stared at him and wondered what he was after. Perhaps he wanted Anthony for whatever fallen-on-hard-times business had landed him here. Or maybe his flattery could be more accurately called _flirting_. Anthony's stomach twisted at the second possibility. He'd had a few such overtures thrown his way at sea. He'd always been upset by them, although he didn't quite understand why; they'd been friendly, more-or-less polite propositions that he'd been free to take or leave, not at all like the captain's methods.

_You are not at sea, _he told himself. _Mr. Byrd isn't going to try anything, not in this room full of people. Calm down. What has he done, anyway, but take your hand and say a lot of pretty nonsense? It's fine to be wary of him, but calm down._

"Alright," he said, adding, "I didn't really like _Charlotte Temple_. Too sad."

"I suspected as much," Mr. Byrd replied, smiling. He stood up and straightened his waistcoat. "It occurs to me that I ought to introduce you to the other inhabitants of Ward Number Ten. I consider it one of my duties as unofficial wardsman to maintain an air of civility in this place. Not that there's much civility to be found in a jail, especially in a ward where everybody is awaiting trial—passing through, you might say—but I do the best I can."

Anthony had no desire to meet the other prisoners. He would've much rather sat on the bench and tried to rest until his trial came up, and had every intention of telling Mr. Byrd so, but then he realized that he didn't want to be alone with his thoughts. If he was alone, he would have to contemplate his future, Johanna, the meat pies, and God knew what else. He rose to his feet and followed Mr. Byrd, who took them clockwise around the room, starting with the black-clad young man sobbing in the corner to the left of them.

"Mr. Pennyfeather," Mr. Byrd said gently, when the young man failed to take his face out of his hands. "This is Mr. Hope of the Portsmouth Hopes."

Anthony started to protest that there were no Portsmouth Hopes of any social significance whatsoever, at least as far as he knew, but quickly realized that nobody else in the conversation cared. Mr. Pennyfeather was too distraught, while Mr. Byrd was just being odd again.

"Mr. Hope just arrived a few minutes ago," Mr. Byrd continued. "Like you, he is literate, if not precisely literary. He has the good taste to dislike _Charlotte Temple_, at any rate. Mr. Hope, this is Mr. Pennyfeather. He went to Oxford and wrote for a newspaper until recently."

"Hello, Mr. Pennyfeather," Anthony said, feeling intensely uncomfortable. When Mr. Pennyfeather didn't respond, Mr. Byrd took him by the elbow and led him to the next inmate, a wiry middle-aged man with a slight stoop to his back.

"Mr. Pennyfeather has been charged with forgery," he whispered to Anthony on the way. "Even if he's found not guilty, he's most likely ruined a promising literary career. He's been crying constantly since he came here. Why, Mr. Sorrell!"

Mr. Byrd said this last sentence at his usual volume. They had reached the middle-aged man, who was reading a little black book. Unlike Mr. Pennyfeather, he looked up at them, but his frown and furrowed brow suggested he wasn't too happy about it.

"What do you want?" he demanded in a northern accent. Anthony inclined his head a little and saw that the book was a bible.

"Only to introduce you to Mr. Hope, Mr. Sorrell," Mr. Byrd said smoothly. "He just arrived here a few minutes ago. Like you, he's quite devout. Went to Sunday School, didn't you, Mr. Hope? I understand that's a rather religious thing to do."

"Lot of good it did him," said Mr. Sorrell, before Anthony could either confirm or deny his piety. "He's in here, isn't he?"

"Pot and kettle, Mr. Sorrell," replied Mr. Byrd. He adjusted the lapels of his jacket, putting Anthony in mind of a rooster puffing up his feathers. "Pot and kettle. Come on, Mr. Hope. It's clear Mr. Sorrell isn't in a social mood."

"Goodbye, Mr. Sorrell," Anthony ventured. He got a grunt in reply.

"He smashed the machines at some factory or another," Mr. Byrd whispered as soon as they were out of earshot. "God knows why. He's the 'official' wardsman, but only because he's been here six days instead of five like me. I've never seen him do anything to fulfill his duties besides alert the guards when there's a fight. I'm far more suited for the position, if you ask me."

Mr. Byrd stopped a few yards in front of the next prisoner, a big, bullish man with greasy black hair. He was hunched over a bottle of rum, so Anthony couldn't see his face. Still, he felt fear spread through his blood like poison. Without thinking, he reached for his knife. Then he remembered that he'd put it in his seabag before heading to Fogg's Asylum. It was with Johanna now. He was glad that she had it; she needed some form of protection and, besides, the peelers would've taken it if he hadn't left it with her. He didn't know why he'd reached for it, anyway, or why he felt so afraid.

"That is Mr. Grey," Mr. Byrd said, still whispering, and Anthony knew. "He's been charged with rape. A baron's niece, no less. I hear he was staying with Lord Something-or-Other—an old school friend, you understand—and he meant to go after the girl's governess, but he got the wrong room. All cats look the same in the dark, et cetera. He probably would've gotten away with it if it _had_ been the governess, but that's not much of a defense in court, is it? Anyway, Grey couldn't marry the girl, being a married man already, and the baron had no use for his money, so there was no wriggling out of a trial. I believe he used to be captain of a merchant ship—the _Bounty_ or something, although that can't be right—but that's all over now, of course."

Anthony only caught the first few sentences of this speech. For the rest of it, he was too busy staring at the captain. His mind screamed at him to run, to hide under one of the benches, to do anything but just stand there, but his feet were stuck to the floor. He couldn't stop marveling at how quickly the captain had gone to seed. Three months ago, he'd been a handsome, well-groomed man, large but muscular and only a few years into middle age. Now his hair was unwashed, his clothes were stained and crumpled, and much of his muscle had gone to fat. He'd aged ten years in one season.

"He seems indisposed at the moment," Mr. Byrd went on, "and he's really not a pleasant sort of fellow. I think I'll go ahead and introduce you to Mr. Shepherd. He's getting on in years and a bit vague, but…"

He trailed off. Anthony was prepared to tell him that, yes, he'd much rather meet Mr. Shepherd, that he'd rather do anything but stand in this spot for one second more, but, at that moment, the captain lifted his head and looked right at him. His eyes were bloodshot and took a few seconds to focus, but then recognition passed over his newly haggard features.

"I know you, young man," he said. He sounded surprisingly sober. "You were a sailor on my ship. Harlowe, isn't it?"

_You know my name_, Anthony wanted to say, but his mouth was working about as well as his legs. The _Bountiful_ wasn't a large ship; at most, the crew numbered fifteen men, and he was fairly sure the captain hadn't done _that_ to most of them. He had no idea what the captain was playing at, but he hated him all the more for it.

"No, this is Mr. Hope," Mr. Byrd corrected. The captain smiled and stood, leaving the bottle on the bench. He approached them and Anthony couldn't even breathe, let alone walk away.

"Ah, yes, Hope," he said, ignoring Mr. Byrd. It seemed to Anthony that he'd blotted out Mr. Byrd altogether, along with the rest of Ward Number Ten. "Forgive me for not remembering your name," he continued. He placed his hand on Anthony's shoulder lightly, but it felt like a fetter. "Perhaps I would've recognized you if you'd been lying on the floor."

Anthony heard a gasp, but he wasn't sure if it was his or Mr. Byrd's.

"Oh, don't look like that," the captain told him. "Your virtue, shopworn as it is, is safe from me. I bribed the guards for that rum over there. I can surely bribe them for a nicer piece of ass than you."

"Fine," Anthony finally managed to reply. "Why don't you go do that, then, instead of talking to me?"

At that moment, something changed in the captain's expression. His smile was no longer just vicious, but downright feral. His eyes stopped focusing on Anthony and instead gazed wildly into the middle distance, as though he could see a divine vision there.

"I won't leave you, Hope, not ever," he said, gripping Anthony's shoulder. "They could send you to any prison in this damp, dirty little country. They could send you halfway round the world to Australia. Hell, they could even let you go free, but it wouldn't matter."

"Go to hell," Anthony said, but it came out as barely a whisper. He knew he wasn't at sea, where the captain was king of a very small country with no parliament. They were equals in Newgate; he could raise his voice to the captain or pull away from him without fear of punishment. He knew all this but, in the back of his mind, he was convinced that fleeing or shouting would get him killed. His limbs were frozen and his mouth felt like it'd been stuffed with cotton. He might as well have still been in that awful cabin on the _Bountiful_.

The captain raised his eyebrows and continued to smile.

"Oh, I'm sure I'll be forced to oblige you eventually," he said. "My trial's in two days, so you might get your wish before the week is out." His smile broadened, revealing his even white teeth. "But even if they do hang me, I'll always be right behind you," he went on. "I'll never be dead as long as you live. Why, I almost think of you as my own child."

For a moment, Anthony thought he would vomit toast and coffee all over the captain's boots, or perhaps start screaming and not be able to stop. Instead, he punched the captain in the mouth. He hadn't planned on doing it. Seconds ago, he'd been too overcome with revulsion to speak or move, and now he was watching blood trickle between the captain's teeth. He was vaguely aware that the other prisoners were watching him, but they seemed more interested than shocked. He supposed fights were hardly rare here. The captain, for his part, just looked slightly annoyed.

"You sweet little son of a bitch," he said mildly. "You poor, crazy bastard. You made me bite my tongue."

Then he was on Anthony, raining blows on his face and shoulders, but the pain didn't matter much. Anthony's mind had turned into a red, feverish place where the only thing of importance was hurting Captain Robert Grey. He hit, kicked, and scratched like a feral cat tied up in a gunnysack; he felt like he was digging his way out of his own grave. There was shouting all around him and some of it was his. He guessed he'd gotten it through his head that he didn't have to be quiet anymore.

After a while, nobody was hitting him anymore, but Anthony didn't stop lashing out until somebody—Mr. Byrd, he could tell by the scarlet jacket sleeve—had his good arm behind his back. Then he came back to himself and realized that almost everyone in the room was staring at him open-mouthed. The captain, though, was grinning at him despite his fat lip and the two guards restraining him.

"My dear, I wish you joy," he said, bowing his head. Anthony shuddered involuntarily, and Mr. Byrd grabbed his good arm even tighter.

"Easy," Mr. Byrd said in a low voice, as the two guards escorted the captain from the ward. "Remember that he'll be swinging from a rope in a week."

Anthony kept this in mind, but it didn't make him feel much better.

_Author's Note: _Charlotte Temple_ was a novel I had to read for one of my English classes. It's the story of a naïve English schoolgirl who gets seduced, taken to America, and abandoned by this dumbass soldier. It was published in the 1790s and was the most popular novel in America until _Uncle Tom's Cabin_ came along in the 1850s. That's pretty impressive, if you ask me, but it's definitely not a "good" book by modern standards. In fact, it's downright hilarious. The author is basically an utterly sincere, real-life Lemony Snicket. Much like Anthony, though, I found myself going, "Oh, you bitch, you're _trying_ to get Charlotte killed," near the end. The novel caused some complicated emotions in me. _


	21. Ghosts

_Author's Note: What a weird chapter I have made._

_Disclaimer: I don't own _Sweeney Todd_ and neither does your mom._

**Chapter Twenty-One: Ghosts**

"I don't think you fully comprehend what it means to have a broken limb," said the prison surgeon, as though speaking to a small child. He squinted through his tiny spectacles at Anthony, who was lying on an infirmary bed in his shirt and trousers, one sleeve rolled up so his arm could be examined. "It means that you keep the limb still so the bone can knit itself back together, or else risk losing use of the limb permanently. You don't get into a fight after a scarce half hour in jail, for God's sake."

"I know," Anthony replied. He wanted to say that he hadn't meant to get into a fight, but he knew how ridiculous that would sound. As far as most of the world was concerned, he'd thrown the first punch, never mind that the first blow was really more than three years old. Besides, he didn't feel much like talking. The surgeon's hands worked deftly and gently, but they still sent a sickening, white-hot pain up his arm when they pressed on the broken bone. He bit his lip and stared at the cracks in the ceiling.

"It looks like I won't have to reset this, after all," the surgeon said, just as Anthony found a crack shaped like China. "Lucky for you. Now, for the love of God, keep it_ still_."

He started to rebind Anthony's arm. Anthony continued to study the China-shaped crack, which, on second thought, looked much more like a shirt. Then the surgeon applied a damp cloth to a cut above his right eye. The sensation was nowhere near as bad as the pain in his arm, but it still stung like hell. During the fight, he'd hardly noticed his injuries, but now he felt them all too well. Blind rage had burned through him, leaving him with nothing but exhaustion and stupid, senseless pain. He wondered if Johanna had felt the same way after shooting Mr. Fogg. He wondered if Mr. Todd had gotten more than a fleeting moment's pleasure from killing the judge. He wondered if there was hope of satisfaction on earth or in heaven, but, before he could think of an answer, he drifted off to sleep, the surgeon's cloth still on his face.

* * *

"Do you feel better, love?"

The voice belonged to a woman, but Anthony didn't have to look to realize the speaker wasn't one of the Quakerish nurses he'd seen hurrying about the infirmary. The Cockney accent was all wrong for a nurse, but the smell of ashes that came with the voice was more wrong yet. Sure enough, when he opened his eyes, Mrs. Lovett was sitting on the edge of his bed. The bit of sky he could see from the high infirmary window was black and nobody else was around. She still wore the blue and white dress she'd been wearing when he'd last seen her. Her dresses had always touched him in some strange way. Their frills, flounces, and bright colors seemed to express an optimism that couldn't be crushed by poverty or loneliness or whatever else a poor widow might have to face. Now he could hardly bear to look at her, even though she was whole and unburned as he remembered. Her pretty dress had been bought with blood and he'd helped her purchase it. He'd contributed to her evil fund with his blindness and the penny he'd spent on that meat pie. She'd tricked not only him, but countless others, including Toby, who would never be the same again. And she was supposed to be dead.

"Leave me alone," he told the apparition. "You're just something I dreamed up, like Mr. Todd last night. I'll wake myself up in a second and you'll be gone, because you're dead now. Go away."

"Alright, dearie," she replied, "but are you sure don't want company?"

He sighed. She had a point. If he woke up now, he'd be alone with his unhappy, confused thoughts. If he stayed asleep, he'd still be alone because Mrs. Lovett was a figment of his imagination, but she might be able to give shape and meaning to his misery. Never mind that he would have to do the actual sorting out. Things just sounded more clever coming from Mrs. Lovett. Besides, he was too tired to wake up.

"Why did you do it?" he asked. "I know Mr. Todd wanted revenge and probably went mad in the end, but why did you help him? You took something awful and made it even worse with those pies. You never seemed like something was wrong with you, so why did you do it?"

"Why does anybody do anything?" she countered. "I made money from it. You saw my new dresses and how happy I was with the shop. If I'd stolen the money or whored myself out to get it, you wouldn't be very angry with me, now, would you? You know what it's like to be poor. You might even feel sorry for me."

"But you didn't! You let him kill all those people! You _helped_ him!" He threw his good arm over his eyes and took a deep breath. "It's not the same thing at all."

"Oh, c'mon, love," she said. She placed her hand on his left arm, just below the broken bone. Her hand felt hot and he shuddered. "Throw not the first stone lest ye be judged, that's what I always say. Why didn't you tell anybody about his scars or his rages? Because you felt sorry for him, of course. You cared about him. So did I. You must've seen how I looked at him."

"You were in love with him," he said. It had crossed his mind once or twice that Mrs. Lovett and Mr. Todd might be lovers, but he'd considered it none of his business and put it from his mind, not least because the idea of Mr. Todd in bed with anyone seemed utterly incongruous. Now he thought of Mrs. Lovett's sad story and how frustrated she'd looked when he'd come to tell Mr. Todd about the asylum, but he couldn't bring himself to feel sorry for her. There were things a person should never do, not even for love.

"I'm not like you," he told her. "I thought he might kill somebody if he got angry enough, but I didn't think he'd actually done anything. A man can't be arrested for his temperament. And I knew he'd been convicted of something, but I didn't think it was anything violent. And I wasn't the only one who thought it was fine to keep him on the ship, you know. You knew everything. You knew what I never would've suspected and you still helped him. I'm not like you at all."

He was crying a little by now, but Mrs. Lovett had the good grace not to mention it. She just patted his hand.

"I wonder what the baron's niece would say about that," she said sweetly. "Maybe you didn't know anything about Mr. Todd, sweetheart, but there was somebody you knew all about. Ain't you thought about that poor girl?"

He didn't reply. The baron's niece had been in the back of his mind since he'd heard about her from Mr. Byrd, but he'd avoided thinking about her on purpose.

"She's going to have it worse than you did, you know," Mrs. Lovett continued. "You got to keep it all a secret, but the whole world knows what happened to her. Nobody cares if a boy ain't a virgin, but nobody will marry a genteel girl what's been with a man. Maybe if you'd told when it happened to you, the captain wouldn't have ruined her life."

"I couldn't have. I…" He swallowed and wiped his eyes with his sleeve. He didn't know how to explain how lost he'd been, how he hadn't known whom to tell or whether he would get in trouble for it or even what to call what had been done to him. He didn't have a much better understanding now. "You're not supposed to know any of that," he finally said. "You couldn't have known any of that."

"Oh, good _God_," she snapped. "You just said you dreamed me up. Anyway, if you want to pretend I'm really Mrs. Lovett, let's just say I know everything because I'm dead. Or that Mr. Todd heard what you said when you thought he was passed out and then told me, because we both know how talkative _he_ was. Or maybe everybody can tell just by looking at you. How about that, love? Isn't that what you think?"

He laughed. He'd never had such an absurd dream. Then he started crying even harder. That was the trouble with tears, he reflected. A person could go months on end without crying, but once he started, it became increasingly easier to do it again. He didn't like it at all.

"You're being bloody ridiculous, you know that?" Mrs. Lovett said. "You'd think all the rape and murder in the world started with Anthony Hope, the way you take on. Doesn't leave much wickedness for the rapists and murderers, does it? Awfully selfish of you, love."

"But you just said…"

"Well, I'm you, ain't I?" she interrupted. "You think a lot of things, most of them nonsense, so I wouldn't listen to everything I say."

"I certainly won't listen to _that_. I'll get a headache if I try," he told her, laughing again. She resumed patting his hand and he knew he was still crying as well.

* * *

He woke to find a Quakerish nurses simultaneously pressing a damp cloth against his forehead and shaking him by the shoulder. With some embarrassment, he realized that his hysterics had carried over into the waking world.

"I'm sorry," he told the nurse. "I'm fine. Thank you."

She made him drink a cup of water, but then she left him alone. He stared at the high window for a while; the sky was a dark, overcast gray, which could've meant almost any time of day. When he finally got back to sleep, he dreamed about riding on a stagecoach with a basketful of eggs on his arm.

_Author's Note: Hey, when you're a nice, traumatized Victorian boy and you're living half a century before Freud, you do what you can. I promise that plot-type stuff actually happens in the next chapter. I just felt like this one was structurally important or something. _


	22. Lucky in Love

_Author's Note: In this chapter, Johanna returns! Also, there are card games and sea chanteys. For reference, Beggar-My-Neighbor is like War, but slightly more complicated. Piquet is much more complicated and you have to take out more than half the cards for it to work. The chantey Anthony's thinking about is "Johnny Come Down to Hilo," which is NASTY. Oh, my God, sea chanteys are the worst. Drinking, sex, violence, cannibalism, rape, prostitution, tobacco use, pick-pocketing, death, piracy, STDs…it's pretty hardcore. And don't even get me started on murder ballads._

_Also, it seems that there is yet another historical inaccuracy in this fic. Rape was apparently made into a not-hanging offense in 1841, five years before the story takes place. I could've sworn it was 1861, but…well, canon is already 19__th__ Century Stew, so I don't think being five years off is such a big deal. And I still say it's better than my "getting stabbed to death in a Peruvian brothel" idea. _

_Disclaimer: I don't own _Sweeney Todd_. I don't own "Johnny Come Down to Hilo," either, thank God, because that is NASTY. _

**Chapter Twenty-Two: Lucky in Love**

When Anthony returned to Ward Number Ten the following morning, he was tired despite the hours of sleep he'd gotten in the infirmary. He also felt sad in a vague, fretful way that couldn't be helped. He'd been troubled by several dreams like the egg-basket one, visions of eggs breaking and giant waves crashing and his mother darning stockings. They didn't disturb him while he was having them—it had been good to see his mother again, in fact, even though she'd talked of nothing but South American geography the whole time—but he woke up feeling cold and strange.

He carried this emotion from the infirmary bed to a bench in the corner of the ward, where he sat alone. He saw the captain sitting in his usual place. Incredibly, he had a woman perched on his lap, a busty redhead in a skimpy blue dress. He must've bribed the guards quite a lot.

_Her eyes were blue, her dress the same, but she always fell asleep before I came, _Anthony thought dully, remembering the old chantey. _Whatever he's paying her, it's not enough. _It was strange, but he found he wasn't really afraid of the captain. He couldn't say anything to Anthony worse than he'd already said and he wouldn't do anything to him in this roomful of people. Still, it made him sick to be in the same room.

"May I join you?" somebody asked him. Anthony looked up and saw Mr. Byrd with a stack of cards. "I confess myself quite bored. Mr. Shepherd doesn't have his wits enough about him to play cards, Mr. Pennyfeather is gone, and Mr. Sorrell doesn't approve of such frivolity. Do you know Beggar-My-Neighbor?"

"Of course," Anthony said indignantly. Beggar-My-Neighbor was a children's game. It was also one of the few card games he'd ever won, but Mr. Byrd didn't need to know that.

"How lucky for me," he said brightly. He sat beside Anthony and began dividing the cards between them. While he counted them out, Anthony glanced round and saw that the captain was smirking at him. He also had a hand on the woman's thigh, pushing her skirts higher and higher.

_Oh wake her, oh shake her, _Anthony thought wildly. _Oh wake that girl with the blue dress on…_

"Don't mind him," Mr. Byrd said sharply. Startled, Anthony turned to him, but he looked more worried than angry. "That's a good lad. Turn over the card."

Anthony ducked his head and felt his face burn. He laid down the top card, a ten of clubs. His hands were shaking. Suddenly, he wished he were far away, not only from the captain's leers, but from Mr. Byrd's solicitous looks. He appreciated the kindness, but he felt like somebody had opened him up and started examining his innards. Nobody was supposed to _know_.

"He won't bother you anymore," Mr. Byrd said, laying down a three of hearts. "At least, he won't speak to you. Last evening, I reminded him of what I'd overheard. There are certain crimes that win admiration in Newgate—some would even congratulate him for bedding a lady against her will, I'm afraid—but what he did to you isn't one of them."

"Oh," Anthony said. He was glad for it, but he prayed Mr. Byrd would say no more on the subject. It also occurred to him that Mr. Byrd was dangerous. Not to him, perhaps, but dangerous all the same. He spoke of blackmail the way other people discussed the weather. "Thank you."

He laid down a six of clubs. Mr. Byrd came up with a jack of spades and, after seeing Anthony's five of hearts, took the whole pile.

"I don't quite understand you, Mr. Hope," he said as he straightened his stack. "Yesterday, you launched yourself at a man twice your size and fought him like a demon, but now you can't look me in the eye. What, exactly, have you done to be ashamed of?"

Anthony lifted his eyes to Mr. Byrd's and tried to speak, but his thoughts were chasing each other crazily through his mind and he couldn't settle on one answer. _I brought a monster to London, _he thought. _I threatened a man with a gun. I made myself blind, deaf, and dumb to evil and now it's come home to me. _

"I've been arrested for kidnapping," he finally said. He couldn't stop his lips from curling into a smile. That was one thing he hadn't done wrong. Mr. Byrd, for his part, looked downright delighted.

"Why, that's not bad at all!" he said. "They'll only give you two or three years for that. Tell me, was it sailors or heiresses? I'll wager it was heiresses. You don't strike me as the sort to sell your fellow sailors to a press gang."

"What? No!" Anthony hoped Mr. Byrd didn't mean he seemed like the sort to kidnap heiresses. Then he wondered if he _would_ only get two or three years. He suddenly felt better than he had in days. "I mean, yes, I kidnapped an heiress. It was an awful, shameful thing to do."

"Naturally," agreed Mr. Byrd, and Anthony knew his lie had been for nothing. "Now tell me what you actually did."

Anthony smiled again. Mr. Byrd did not believe him guilty and was talking about something other than the captain. And the sentence for kidnapping was only two or three years. Under the circumstances, he could hardly ask for anything more.

"I met a girl," he said. "Her guardian was trying to make her marry him, even though he'd raised her as his daughter, so I asked her to marry me instead."

Now that he'd said it aloud, it seemed terribly unromantic. He guessed that it was. He'd proposed to her because he'd known what sort of man the judge was and been loath to abandon her to him. She'd accepted because she'd needed to escape. Anthony loved her—the fierce ache in his chest when he thought of her left no doubt on that score—and he wanted her more than he'd ever wanted anyone. He thought she might even love him, at least a little. Still, he knew that they never would have become engaged so quickly if the judge hadn't forced their hands. Perhaps they never would have even spoken.

"And I love her," he said, because that much was true. "That's a big part of it, too."

"Why, it's just like a gothic novel," Mr. Byrd said, not without approval. "May I ask how your engagement landed you in Newgate?"

"We tried to elope and he got wind of it, so he had me arrested for kidnapping," Anthony explained. "I only wonder he didn't try to have me hanged."

"I see," Mr. Byrd said, although he looked puzzled. Anthony supposed the story didn't make much sense if one wasn't acquainted with Judge Turpin. "It seems you've had rather bad luck with potential fathers-in-law, then."

Anthony laughed. Johanna had a lecherous tyrant for a foster father and a murderous madman for a natural one. Good Lord, it wasn't funny at all, but Mr. Byrd was more right than he knew.

"I never knew I was so amusing," Mr. Byrd commented, grinning. He straightened his stack of cards once more, even though the game had apparently come to a halt. "Now that I've heard your story, I must conclude that you've done nothing to be ashamed of."

"Everybody's done something to be ashamed of," Anthony pointed out. He wasn't sure if he believed what he said. Most people sometimes did things that were wrong, but he didn't think all of them deserved to feel deep, lasting shame for it. He just wanted to distract Mr. Byrd. He flipped over his next card, a queen. "You owe me two cards."

"I suppose," Mr. Byrd conceded. He handed over the cards. Neither was a face or an ace. "I only met you yesterday, after all. For all I know, you could be a thief. You could cheat at cards, although I think we'd be playing something more complicated than Beggar-My-Neighbor if that were the case. You could be an opium-eater, even. Still, that wouldn't explain why you could look at me yesterday, but can't today. You would have been all those things yesterday, no?"

Anthony did not reply. He stared at the blue mermaid printed on the back of his card and wondered why Mr. Byrd wouldn't leave the subject alone.

"There's only one thing that's changed since yesterday," Mr. Byrd continued. "I inadvertently discovered that somebody else did something terrible to you. Of course, I wasn't very surprised, given why he's here, but my point is that I think less of him. Not you. I think quite well of you, actually. You were _spectacular_ when you punched him in the face."

"Thank you," Anthony muttered. He found that he even meant it. It wasn't that Mr. Byrd's speech changed anything significantly. He still felt shame when he remembered what had been done to him, even though he knew all the blame lay with the captain, and the fight hadn't solved anything. It gave him some relief that Mr. Byrd thought his shame was unfounded, though. As for the fight…well, it hadn't made him feel worse. That was something.

"Perhaps you already know what I'm telling you," Mr. Byrd said, as though reading his thoughts, "but I thought you ought to hear it from somebody else. I don't suppose you've ever spoken to anyone about this?"

"Not really." Anthony stared at the card on top of the pile. He knew what it was, but he couldn't name it or remember what it meant he should do next. Then more words tumbled unbidden from his mouth. "I…I think sometimes I should have. The baron's niece…it wouldn't have happened to her if I'd told."

"Oh, cut line, Mr. Hope," Mr. Byrd snapped. His tone jolted Anthony from his confused state and made him look up. "I don't suppose you had much in the way of legal recourse. Who were you going to tell? The captain of your ship? Mind you, even if you'd gone to the maritime courts after the voyage, you would've had to put together a hell of case for there to be a chance of a guilty verdict. I doubt it would've made a bit of difference, in the end."

"But it might've," Anthony said. He sincerely believed that, but he was also desperate for Mr. Byrd's absolution. "I ought to have tried, at least."

"That's all very well in theory, but I can't imagine you were in any state to do so. Would you blame somebody else who acted as you did under the same circumstances? I'm sure the captain forced himself on others long before he knew you. Do you blame them for what happened to you?"

Anthony thought of all the possible others—servants, barmaids, his own shipmates, even Mrs. Captain Robert Grey—and the answer was so beautifully simple that he almost burst into tears right then and there.

"Of course not," he said. Dazed, he asked, "Are you a lawyer?"

Mr. Byrd laughed.

"If you're asking me to defend you, I'm afraid I can't. I have been practicing law for the past several years, but it recently came to light that I was, er, not exactly authorized to do so. Mind you, I'm still quite good at it, but nobody will take you seriously if you use a fake lawyer."

"Oh, I was just asking," Anthony replied, although he suddenly wished Mr. Byrd could be his lawyer. He didn't like the idea of relying on his own wits, which were only fair at best. "I hope they let you go free."

"Even though I admitted my guilt?" Mr. Byrd raised his eyebrows. "That's a bit rebellious of you, isn't it?"

"All the same," Anthony said. He thought of _Oliver Twist_ and added, "Anyway, the law's an ass."

Mr. Byrd burst out laughing.

"Well, thank the Lord," he said once he'd got hold of himself. "You have read something besides _Charlotte Temple_. Now, tell me, do you want to continue this game, or shall I teach you how to play piquet?"

* * *

They had played three games of piquet, one of which Anthony was sure Mr. Byrd had let him win, when two guards came to take Anthony from the ward.

"Your trial is to take place before mine?" Mr. Byrd exclaimed. "Well, I am very put out. Very put out indeed," he told the guards, who ignored him. Then he squeezed Anthony's shoulder and, in a more somber tone, said, "Best of luck, Mr. Hope. And remember what I told you."

"Thank you, Mr. Byrd," Anthony said. The words sounded inadequate, but the guards were listening and he couldn't think of anything better. He rose to his feet. "I'll remember. Good luck to you, too."

"Oh, I don't need it," Mr. Byrd said airily. "I'm like a cat. I always land on my feet."

Anthony grinned as the guards led him from the large gray room. Then a woman—it had to the one on the captain's lap, because there were no other women in the room—called, "Swing, boy, swing!" and something froze inside of him.

_I'm not going to swing, _he told himself, as the guards escorted him out the door. _It's three years at the most. _Still, he felt sick. He was going to stand before a courtroom of strangers, most of them inclined to think the worst of him. He was going to be judged and probably sentenced to three years in a place like this, and it was going to happen in a manner of minutes.

Blindly, he followed the guards down a series of serpentine passages. They seemed to be endless, but finally they came to an oak door that led to a steep flight of stairs. That struck Anthony as odd. He could have sworn the passage between Newgate and the Old Bailey was underground. Then again, he was hardly an expert on the architecture of the place, so he didn't think much of it until one of the guards opened the door at the top of the stairs, revealing a room much too small to be a courtroom.

The walls were papered in a rather ugly black-and-green pattern and decorated with framed samplers, one of which said, "Keep Your Eyes on Your Work and Your Mind on the Lord." There was a heavy black desk in the middle of the room, surrounded by a few matching chairs. A man with magnificent gray sideburns sat behind the desk; Anthony wondered if he could be the governor of Newgate. The most puzzling thing about the room, though, was the lady sitting on the other side of the desk.

"Mrs. Bamford?" he asked, before he could stop himself. She turned to him. She was dressed all in black bombazine, but her complexion was as rosy and her expression as cheerful as he'd ever seen them. Her smile faded as soon as she got a good look at him, though.

"Rain and hail in Beulah land," she said. "What has happened to you, ducky?"

"He got in a fight, ma'am," interjected the man with the sideburns. He sounded exhausted. "I understand that he struck the first blow. You can't blame Newgate for this, Mrs. Bamford."

"La, what a ridiculous story," she replied. "It doesn't sound like Mr. Hope at all. Anyway, I don't care enough to make trouble for you. Do you have all your things, ducky?"

"Yes," he replied. He'd come to Newgate with only the clothes on his back. "But I don't understand. Where am I going?"

"Your case has been thrown out of court, Mr. Hope," said the man with sideburns.

Anthony's heart started beating wildly. He didn't know if having his case thrown out of court was a good or a bad thing. Perhaps it meant that something other than the court was going to judge his case. Was that even legal? He wasn't sure of anything at this point.

"That means there's not enough evidence to put you on trial," Mrs. Bamford explained gently. "There wasn't even enough evidence to arrest you, from what I hear. You're free, ducky."

"What?" Anthony stared at the wallpaper, but he wasn't really seeing it. He could hardly dare to believe what he'd heard. "I'm what?"

"You're free," she repeated. "Nobody ever saw you with Miss Barker and she says you didn't kidnap her. That monstrous barber told her guardian that you'd done it, but that's the only evidence. The word of a madman! Can you imagine?"

"Now, Mrs. Bamford," the man with sideburns said, raising his eyebrows until they threatened to touch his hairline. "That's hardly an appropriate subject for—"

"I beg your pardon," Mrs. Bamford interrupted. "Mr. Hope and I will be leaving, so you won't have to listen to me anymore. Are you ready to go, Mr. Hope?"

"I—"

"Well, of course you're coming home with me," she told him, before he could say anything else. "You don't have anywhere else to stay, do you?"

"No," he agreed, still stunned. "I'm ready."

She looked at his good arm meaningfully until he realize he ought to offer it to her. He extended it, she took it, and they were out the door and halfway down the stairs before he fully registered what had happened. The guards followed a few feet behind them, but it seemed they were there to help them find their way out, not stop them from getting there.

"I'm _free_," he said to Mrs. Bamford. He still couldn't quite believe it. "How did it happen?"

"I told you," she said lightly. "There was no evidence. The peelers arrested you because my husband told them to arrest you, not because they ever saw you enter or leave the shop with Miss Barker. Besides, Miss Barker was at her guardian's country estate that night—has been all fall, in fact—while you were clearly in London."

Anthony was about to ask her what on Earth she meant about the country estate, but then he remembered the guards behind them. This was for their benefit.

"I did think that was rather odd," he told Mrs. Bamford, who giggled.

"Well, it's all over now, whatever it was," she said. She glanced at the cut above his eye. "I know somebody who's going to have my head for that, you know. I told her about your arm, but she won't be expecting your poor face to be cut up."

"It's not that bad," he insisted. He couldn't bring himself to ask if she was talking about the person he thought. It was too much to hope for, although he supposed it was a good day for that sort of thing.

Once they were off the stairs, the guards passed him and Mrs. Bamford so they could lead them through more passages and gates. When they finally exited the outermost gate, Anthony took a deep breath. The air smelled like coal and rotting food as usual, but at the moment it was the sweetest he'd ever breathed.

Mrs. Bamford's footman was waiting outside the gates with her carriage. He helped her inside and Anthony followed. He'd barely sat down when he realized they weren't alone. A small figure sat across from him, dressed in his spare shirt and a pair of trousers he'd recently outgrown. A few soft waves of yellow hair escaped from the ancient brown cap on her head.

"Anthony!" she cried, and she launched herself across the carriage and threw her arms around him before he entirely knew what was happening. "You're here. You're really here. I thought I'd never see you again. I love you, Anthony. I didn't get to say it before they took you away, but I love you, I do."

"I love you, too," he muttered into her hair. He hugged her back, clutching desperately at the rough fabric of her borrowed jacket, even though he knew Mrs. Bamford was sitting across from them and they weren't being proper at all. Johanna smelled so good, like hyacinths, and she felt so soft and warm. And she loved him. "I love you so much, Johanna."


	23. Shelter from the Storm

_Author's Note: This is a pretty short chapter, but the next one is shaping up to be fairly long, so things should balance out nicely. _

_Disclaimer: I own nothing, except for poor Mrs. Bamford, I suppose._

**Chapter Twenty-Three: Shelter from the Storm**

Anthony and Johanna didn't break apart until Mrs. Bamford coughed, reminding them of her presence. He reluctantly let go of Johanna and grinned at Mrs. Bamford. She smiled back, but her bright black eyes were wide and sad. He remembered that she'd just been widowed and he assumed a more solemn expression. Even if she had hated the beadle, it couldn't be easy to lose a husband. He glanced at Johanna. Her eyes were narrowed and her teeth were clenched. He couldn't think why. Mrs. Bamford was hardly unreasonable in wanting them not to embrace in front of her.

"Who did that to you?" she demanded, and he remembered the cut on his face. She whirled on Mrs. Bamford. "You said it was only his arm. You _said_ he wouldn't be hurt in Newgate. I told you we shouldn't have waited to rescue him!"

"I didn't _wait_, Johanna," Mrs. Bamford snapped. "May I remind you that my husband just died? I had arrangements to make, some of them involving Mr. Hope. It would've been impossible to get him out yesterday. For heaven's sake, think before you say such silly things."

Johanna didn't seem to hear her.

"He's the only one," she said, her voice rising. "He's the only one who ever cared enough to help me and you wanted me to abandon him to _fiends_? First your beastly policemen, then a pack of hardened criminals! Anthony never abandoned me. Why should I abandon him?"

"I'm not asking you to abandon him to fiends," Mrs. Bamford pointed out. "He's out of Newgate, isn't he? Nobody's going to hurt him anymore. Furthermore, they weren't _my_ policemen. They were my husband's."

"Well, you still let them take him to jail! You still left them alone with him even though you knew they broke his arm!"

Anthony just gazed at Johanna. He was vaguely aware that she was shouting and being rather unfair to Mrs. Bamford, but mostly he just felt safe and warm. He also knew he was absurdly lucky. It wasn't every man who had somebody like her on his side.

"The peelers didn't break my arm," he interjected. While he thought Johanna was magnificent, somebody needed to defend Mrs. Bamford from her. "I tried to escape by jumping off the wagon and landed on it."

"Because you were running from them!" she countered. "I saw one of them kick you and Colleen says they used you very ill. Don't you _dare_ lie to make me feel better."

"I wish you wouldn't gossip with Colleen," said Mrs. Bamford. She looked at Johanna's attire and sighed. "I know the past few days have been…unusual, but you mustn't forget you're a lady. Sooner or later, you'll have to start acting like one again."

"The past few _months_ have been unusual," she replied. Her tone was calm, but it chilled the air in the carriage. Anthony saw where the conversation was going, but he knew he couldn't stop it. It was barreling towards them like an angry bull. "In fact, the last fifteen years have been rather peculiar," she continued. "Tell me, how should I be a lady?"

Mrs. Bamford blanched.

"You were raised and educated as one," she finally said. Anthony wanted to tell her to stop, but he suspected he'd only make the situation worse. "The world sees you as a lady. You should try to prove them right."

"I was raised to be a mistress," Johanna said in a low voice. "I was dressed in pretty clothes and made to acquire accomplishments that amused my guardian. He meant to keep me from the world and use me like a whore. When I refused, he discarded me. Perhaps he meant to marry me, but I think that makes little difference, considering he brought me up as his daughter. Tell me again, Mrs. Bamford, how I should be a lady."

Anthony stared at her. He wanted more than anything else to hold her again, but the six inches of seat between them suddenly seemed like an unbridgeable gulf. Besides, she held herself so stiffly that he was afraid she would snap if he touched her. He supposed he'd realized the nature of her relationship with Turpin for a long time. After all, he'd known that the man wanted to marry her. He'd been in the library that day. It was something else to hear her come right out and _say_ what it was, though.

"Oh, my poor girl," said Mrs. Bamford. She was crying now. "I know it's hard, but you can put that all behind you. Nobody will know except for me and Mr. Hope."

"I'll know," she said quietly. "That was most of my life. I can't forget it."

"You shouldn't have to," Anthony said. The women started. They seemed to have forgotten he was there. "I think you have it in you to be a great lady, Johanna," he went on, "but if you went around in my clothes all your life and gossiped with every maid in England, you'd be no less. You're brave, you're clever, and you're _good_. You've had a bad time, that's all."

Johanna burst into tears. He'd seen her cry before, but now she was letting out big, gulping sobs that wracked her entire body. She collapsed sideways into his arms and wept into his jacket. He stroked her hair with his good hand.

"It's alright, Jo," he said. "Cry all you want. It's alright."

He didn't like to see her so distressed, but perhaps she'd feel better after she was done. If she was anything like him, she'd at least be able to rest. She didn't look like she'd slept much in the past few days.

He looked at Mrs. Bamford, hoping to tell her with a word or look that he didn't hold her advice against her. Her expression surprised him. He'd expected her to look sad and she did, but there was something else in her face. She stared at him as though he had a high fever and might do something incredibly stupid in his delirium. He couldn't think what she feared he would do, but it made him uneasy.

"It's going to be fine," he repeated, although he really wasn't sure it would be. "I know it's bad, but it's going to be fine."

_Author's Note: Hope you enjoyed!_


	24. Tea and Sympathy

_Author's Note: So, this one's longer! Also, there's a nineteenth-century parlor song and some discussion of Samuel Richardson's _Pamela_. Oh, and it is revealed what happened to Toby and why exactly Anthony won't be going to court. Plus Anthony may or may not have acquired a fetish. _

_Disclaimer: I don't own _Sweeney Todd_, "Long, Long Ago," or _Pamela_. _

**Chapter Twenty-Four: Tea and Sympathy**

About an hour later, they were all sitting in Mrs. Bamford's parlor, eating a luncheon that consisted of tiny sandwiches and overly sweet pink cakes. This fare did little to assuage Anthony's hunger, but he didn't mind. In some way, it pleased him to be unsatisfied with such dainty food. He felt alive, almost like a new person. After they'd arrived at the house, a maid had taken him to a spare room, where he'd washed up before luncheon. Somebody had placed his seabag on the bed, so he'd been able to change his linen and trousers, too. It made an amazing difference not to be filthy.

Johanna had also changed. She wore a high-necked black bombazine dress, much like Mrs. Bamford's. She looked well in mourning, but Anthony found himself missing the trousers. There was something about her wearing his clothes, although perhaps it was wicked to be thinking such things. Her hair was plaited and piled on top of her head, and her eyes weren't the least bit red. Mrs. Bamford didn't look like she'd been crying, either.

"Are the sandwiches to your liking?" she asked Anthony and Johanna.

"They're delicious," said Anthony. _I could eat ten of them, _he refrained from adding. Johanna just nodded and went on nibbling off the crust.

"Would either of you like more tea?" Mrs. Bamford had been plying them with very hot, very sweet tea since they'd come to the parlor. Anthony found the taste vaguely nauseating, but it calmed him a little.

"Yes, thank you," he said. He held out his cup and Mrs. Bamford filled it with her pink ceramic teapot. Then she filled Johanna's cup without being asked. Johanna wrinkled her nose, but took a sip a few seconds later.

For the next minute or so, they all drank tea and ate sandwiches without speaking. Then Anthony broke the silence. Something had been troubling him.

"I still don't understand what happened," he said. "Why am I here and not still in Newgate? If there was enough evidence to arrest me, then why wasn't there enough to have a trial?"

Mrs. Bamford exchanged glances with Johanna.

"Do you want to start, or shall I?" she asked.

"You should go first," Johanna said. She sipped her tea. It amazed him how calm she was. "Start with the asylum. How I wasn't really there."

"Very well," Mrs. Bamford replied, before Anthony could ask what _that_ meant. She turned to him. "The first thing you've got to understand," she said, "is that the judge always had more power than intelligence."

Johanna let out an astonished little laugh.

"Right," said Anthony, but he didn't really understand at all. He'd always thought of Judge Turpin as clever. There'd been no getting around him, at least.

"He was quick enough," Mrs. Bamford explained, "but he couldn't keep a cool head. When he really wanted something, his passions always got the better of him."

He thought of that day in the library. Turpin had accused him of being practiced in the ways of the world, when he'd only been with one woman, one time. Of course, Turpin couldn't have been expected to know his carnal history just by looking at him, but Anthony had the feeling he would've said the same thing to any man caught staring at Johanna. He'd been too possessive of her to see clearly. And he'd sent her to an insane asylum. That was not the action of a reasonable man.

"Of course, he wouldn't lose his wits all at once," Mrs. Bamford continued. "When he sent Johanna to the asylum, a part of him was still thinking clearly enough to commit her under a false name."

"He gave my name as Pamela Andrews," Johanna added. "Like the novel."

"Good Lord," he said. He'd read the beginning of _Pamela_. It was all about a rich gentleman trying to bed his fifteen-year-old servant. The gentleman had used all sorts of low stratagems on her—hiding in her bed, imprisoning her in his country house, going right out and sticking his hand down her bodice—and Anthony had stopped reading once he realized the story would end in their marriage, rather than the gentleman being killed in a duel or something like that. For the life of him, he couldn't understand why Turpin would want to cast himself in the role of Mr. B., but it didn't exactly surprise him.

"He had a few reasons for not giving her real name," Mrs. Bamford went on. "First, he still intended to marry her. Marrying a girl who'd been in an insane asylum would've hurt his career. Second, he wanted to make it harder for you to find her. Third, he knew that he might be considered inordinately cruel if it came out that he'd sent her to a place like Fogg's. Not that he wasn't already known for cruelty in many circles, but even his friends might've balked at that." She giggled nervously. "I don't mean my husband, of course. I only know all this because he used to gloat about it to me."

"I'm sorry," Anthony said, both to Mrs. Bamford and Johanna. He wondered if there was any end to the cruelty of the judge and the beadle. There always seemed to be something new and rotten beneath the surface.

"It's all in the past," said Mrs. Bamford. "More to the point, because he didn't give her real name, there's no record of her being at the asylum. Not even the peelers knew. My husband led them to believe you'd abducted her from the judge's country house, where she was staying for her health. I trust you didn't give _your_ real name to Fogg?"

"Of course not," he replied, somewhat miffed. It was true that Mr. Todd had told him to use a false name, but he was sure he would've thought of it himself, eventually.

"And did anybody see you, aside from Fogg and the inmates?" she asked. He shook his head. Fogg's Asylum had been dreadfully understaffed. "Then you'll be fine. Fogg is dead and the testimony of the inmates wouldn't be considered reliable without Turpin endorsing it, even if somebody did connect you and Johanna to the outbreak."

"Oh. Good," he said. He felt a trifle unsteady. He hadn't thought of the legal consequences of what had happened at the asylum that night; there had been too much else to occupy his mind. He supposed he'd soon feel relieved at not being found out, though. "And I couldn't have kidnapped Johanna because everybody thought she was in the country that night, while I was still in London," he added. "I think I understand that. But why didn't the peelers see Johanna with me? She was standing right behind me when I was arrested."

"I was dressed as a boy," Johanna reminded him. "They were probably looking for me in my finest dress, if they were looking for me at all." Her expression darkened. "I expect they thought I was upstairs with the judge. They wouldn't have wanted to disturb him."

"Very likely," Mrs. Bamford interjected. She suddenly looked uncomfortable, even though she'd just mentioned the judge's intentions to marry Johanna. "They're not very clever, Wolfe and Wilson. They were just the first two peelers my husband could find on such short notice. The judge was in a hurry that night, so he and my husband must have cut a few corners. They didn't even get around to bribing a few witnesses to make you look guilty, ducky. Of course, they didn't expect to…well, pass away on that night."

"My guardian was stabbed to death with a razor," Johanna said. Her lips were pressed into a thin line. "Forgive me, but 'pass away' seems like the wrong phrase for it."

Anthony had privately been thinking the same thing. He didn't want to witness another argument between Johanna and Mrs. Bamford, though, so he decided to head it off.

"What did you do after I was arrested?" he asked Johanna. "I know you arrived here yesterday morning, but what happened before?"

She narrowed her eyes at him, letting him know she saw through this ruse, but she launched into an explanation regardless. As she went on, her face relaxed and her words became more animated. Something like pride crept into her expression. Anthony was glad, because if anybody ought to feel prouder than she did, by God, it was Johanna.

"I hid under the table once I realized they were police," she began. "I felt like a coward for it, but I thought I'd make things worse if I showed myself."

"You were right," he said.

"I was, wasn't I?" she replied, smiling. "Anyway, I stayed there until the little boy came upstairs. I might have been afraid of him—he was all covered in blood—but he was crying and he'd left the razor downstairs. And I thought, 'Whatever he's done, it can't be much different from what I did tonight,' and then I thought of him in a place like Fogg's, and I knew I couldn't leave him to that, any more than you could leave _me_. So, I said it was going to be fine, but we needed to get out, and he agreed. Then we left and he found a church doorway where we could spend the night. Once it was light, we came here, because I thought Mrs. Bamford might help us. Colleen told me where you were and I wanted to get you out immediately, but Mrs. Bamford said to wait."

"I hardly had a choice," Mrs. Bamford protested. She looked tired. "They'd both had a nasty shock," she said to Anthony. "I had to feed them and give the little boy laudanum to calm him down. He was inconsolable, you know. Then the police came to tell me that my husband was dead, and there was even more business to attend to. There was no time to get you out until this morning."

"I know," he said. "I wasn't in Newgate for long, anyway."

"It's intolerable that you should have been there at all," said Johanna, although her tone had softened somewhat. "You were only there because you rescued _me_ from another prison. And they hurt you."

"Not badly," he said. He touched his hand to the cut above his eye. It had already scabbed over. "Anyway, only one of them hit me, and I struck him first. I could have avoided it."

It wasn't precisely the truth—he hadn't hit first, not really, and he wasn't sure he _could_ have avoided it—but it would do for now.

"There lies a sorry tale," said Mrs. Bamford, nodding sagely.

"As though you go about hitting people for the fun of it," Johanna scoffed. "He must have done something to provoke you."

_I'll never be dead as long as you live. _He shook his head, as though that would banish the awful words, and made himself smile at her.

"He insulted my mother," he said. She looked skeptical, so he added, "I usually wouldn't have hit him for that, but I was already angry at being arrested and used so ill by the peelers."

_Why, I almost think of you as my own child. _He shivered despite the fire blazing in the hearth and all the hot tea he'd drunk. He couldn't think about that, especially not here, but it was too close to the surface and he couldn't help it.

"Honestly, some men are so foolish," Johanna said. "I don't mean you—I understand why you hit him—but I don't suppose he even knew your mother. Anthony, is something wrong?"

She was regarding him with wide, concerned eyes. Mrs. Bamford was, too. He looked down and saw that he'd sloshed tea on his jacket.

"What? No, I'm fine," he managed to get out. He occupied himself dabbing at his jacket with a napkin and then turned to Mrs. Bamford. "How is Toby, anyway?"

"Toby?" she asked. "Oh, you mean the little boy. He's better than he was yesterday. I believe he's still resting. Are you sure you're fine? You're white as a sheet."

He nodded. He felt like a sheet, but not a white one. No, more like a sheet that had been washed too many times, until it was soft and gray as a pigeon's wing. Fit to be cut up for rags. He was so tired, but it went beyond lack of sleep or sore feet. He was damned _weary_.

"May I play your piano, Mrs. Bamford?" Johanna asked suddenly.

"We're in mourning, Johanna," Mrs. Bamford reminded her, but then she grinned. "I'm sure the servants will understand. Just don't play anything too spirited."

"I won't," Johanna replied. She set aside her teacup, rose, and crossed the room to the piano. He watched as she rifled through the music pages and finally set her hands on the keys. No matter what else he felt, it was good just to be in a room with her. She began to sing:

_Tell me the tales that to me were so dear,  
Long, long ago, long, long ago,  
Sing me the songs I delighted to hear,  
Long, long ago, long ago._

"What are you trying to do, ducky?" Mrs. Bamford asked in a low voice. He turned to her, startled. Despite her words, she looked sorry for him. "You can't still mean to marry her."

"If she'll have me, yes," he said. She started at his sharp tone, which surprised even him. She'd insulted him out of his weariness, he guessed. "What of it?"

"What of it?" she repeated incredulously. "Mr. Hope, you're not _like_ her."

He glanced at Johanna, who smiled at him and kept singing:

_Now you are come all my grief is removed.  
Let me forget that so long you have roved.  
Let me believe that you love as you loved,  
Long, long ago, long ago._

"Nobody's like Johanna," he said. His pulse raced, but not in the unpleasant way of the past few days. Something was stirring inside him, sweet and wild and long-dormant. "What do you mean?"

He expected her to say that Johanna had been brought up as a lady, while he was just an ordinary sailor. He expected her to say that he didn't have enough money to support Johanna in the style to which she was accustomed. He expected her to say that they were too young to marry. Any of those reasons would have been fair enough, although they wouldn't have changed his mind. But Mrs. Bamford didn't say any of those things.

"I mean that she's not an innocent," she whispered. "You must have realized it by now."

He stared at her. He couldn't tell whether she meant that Johanna was literally not a virgin or that she'd been corrupted in a more subtle way. If she meant the former, he didn't see how she could know.

"Well, neither am I," he finally said. He felt himself turn red. A minute ago, he wouldn't have dreamed of even hinting at his sexual experience to Mrs. Bamford. His embarrassment only deepened when she raised her eyebrows and laughed.

"Aren't you, ducky?" she asked. "How many? One? Two?"

"Yes," he muttered, but she didn't seem to hear him.

"You know it's not the same thing," she told him. "You can't possibly be that naïve."

He looked to Johanna again. She was watching them uneasily, but she still sang:

_But, by long absence your truth has been tried,  
Still to your accents I listen with pride,  
Blessed as I was when I sat by your side.  
Long, long ago, long ago._

"I know how things work," he said to Mrs. Bamford. His heart was pounding. "I just think it's unfair. Besides," he added, lowering his voice even more, "if you think that the judge or Fogg or somebody…well, you can't believe it was of her own free will. It'd be monstrously cruel to hold that against her."

"She is to be pitied, to be sure," she conceded. "Still, she can never be a respectable wife." She gave him a hard look. "Perhaps it's cruel of me to say that, but your unkindness far surpasses mine. What do you hope to accomplish by gaining her love? Are you after her money, or don't you mean to marry her at all?"

A crash of notes sounded from across the room. They both whirled to look at Johanna, who stood behind the piano, deathly pale except for two spots of high color on her cheeks. Her eyes were wild and her mouth moved soundlessly.

"Johanna," Mrs. Bamford started. Before she could say anything else, though, Johanna hitched up her black skirts and fled the room. He rose to follow her, but he stopped before he went through the door.

"You've been very kind to me," he said slowly, "and I don't want you to think I've forgotten that. But what the _hell_ do you take me for?"

"A man," she said simply. And she looked so small and alone in her big red armchair that he could have wept for her, as well as for Johanna and himself.

"I understand," was all he said. Then he left the room and ran after Johanna.

_Author's Note: Hope you enjoyed!_


	25. A Certain Kind of Light

_Author's Note: Sadly, there is no Toby in this chapter, but I have already started the next chapter, which does have Toby. But this chapter has other stuff, like secrets and Johanna being bloodthirsty. _

_Disclaimer: I don't own _Sweeney Todd_. Or a toothbrush holder that I didn't have to fashion out of masking tape and an empty pill bottle, but that's another story. _

**Chapter Twenty-Five: A Certain Kind of Light**

He found her in an austere little garden behind the house, sitting on a stone bench underneath a holly tree. Her head was bowed and her hands were folded in her lap. At first, he thought she was praying and considered leaving her alone for a while. Then she spoke.

"Don't be kind to me, Anthony," she muttered, not looking up. "I can bear a great deal, but your sympathy will undo me. If you mean to leave me, you'd best make it quick."

His temper flared. If she had overheard Mrs. Bamford's warnings, then she had surely heard his replies. He'd done nothing but argue with Mrs. Bamford, so it was hardly fair for her to assume that he'd leave her.

"If you want to get rid of me," he said, "I'd prefer you just tell me to go to the devil. You can't count on me to pick up these hints."

"What are you talking about?" she asked. Her eyes were still fixed on her hands.

"You heard me," he said. When she gave no response, he knelt before her and placed a hand over hers. "I love you and I mean to marry you," he went on. "The only thing I care about is whether or not you'll have me. If Mrs. Bamford was right, then I'm sorry for your sake. It's awful and I wouldn't wish it on anyone, let alone you. But it wouldn't change how I feel about you."

She finally looked at him. Her blue eyes were brimming with tears.

"I know," she said, "but that's just the trouble. You won't leave me. You won't hear anything against me. You'll stand by me, no matter what awful thing I say or do, and eventually you'll curse the day you met me. "

"Like hell I will," he burst out. She stiffened and turned the color of chalk. He was also shocked at his words the moment they left his mouth, but he was truly sick of the way she talked about herself. "What have you done that's so awful, anyway? You wouldn't have shot Mr. Fogg if he hadn't scared and hurt you into it. Don't tell me otherwise."

"I was afraid," she admitted. Tears were coursing down her cheeks now. "I was afraid of the judge, too. He never touched me in an improper way, but the way he looked at me…I couldn't live like that again. I grieve for him—I loved him as a daughter loves her father, after all—but I'd kill him myself if he weren't already dead. Do you understand me?"

"I understand," he said. He couldn't deny that her words and demeanor scared him a little, but neither could he blame her. "I think you're wonderful, Johanna, but I don't expect you to be a saint."

She laughed.

"Is that all?" she asked. "You know what I've done, what I am, and all you can say is that I'm not a saint?"

"That's right," he said. "You're not a saint, but you're not this monster you make yourself out to be. You're Johanna Barker, and that's something to be proud of."

Before the last word was entirely out of his mouth, she'd grabbed him by the shoulders and pulled herself closer to him. Her knees, unexpectedly sharp, jutted into his chest.

"You walked into this with your eyes wide open," she said. Her own eyes glowed like the blue center of a flame. "Never tell me you didn't. I liked you—wanted you—from the moment I saw you. Did you know that?"

"I'm glad to hear it," he said. It wasn't really an answer to her question, but he wasn't really paying attention to what he said. She had never been more beautiful than she was now.

"You looked so free and…well, not quite happy. You mostly looked frustrated, I suppose because you were lost." She sighed and loosened her grip on his shoulders a little. "But you seemed so alive, and you looked at everything like it was new and wonderful. And when you looked at me that way…"

She blushed and shook her head.

"Even now, after all that's happened in the last few days, there's a certain kind of light to you," she continued. "I love you for that, but I'm going to put out that light someday." She paused and glared at him. "Even though I love you, I'm going to ruin you. It's in my nature."

"I don't think you will," he said quietly. He felt almost drunk. The world suddenly wasn't spinning the right way round. "If you'd wanted to ruin me, you could have just left me in Newgate. But you got me out."

"If it weren't for me, you wouldn't have been there in the first place," she countered. "It would've been better for you if you'd never seen me."

"I'm glad I saw you," he argued. "I've never felt for anybody what I feel for you. I wouldn't wish that away for anything. I blame the judge for Newgate. I blame the beadle. I blame Wolfe and Wilson, but you…all I know is that I feel good when I'm with you, Jo."

"No, you don't," she said flatly. When he started to protest, she added, "I don't doubt you love me, but you're already sadder than when I met you. I didn't notice in the carriage, but, when we were having tea, there were a few times when you went all pale and shaky. You looked like you weren't _there_ anymore."

Her face had softened into an expression of worry and he found he couldn't look at her anymore. Instead, he stared at her skirts. He focused on her endearingly bony knees and the feel of her thumbs, which were drawing little circles on his shoulders.

"Something's wrong, Anthony," she said. "Don't tell me there isn't."

"There is," he confessed to her skirts. He thought of the old fairy tale about the princess who told her secrets to an iron stove, because she'd taken an oath not to reveal them to people. "It has nothing to do with you, though. It goes back years before I met you."

Her thumbs stopped.

"The man you fought in Newgate," she said. "You knew him."

"How…how did you know?" he asked, after a few long, excruciating seconds. He felt like she'd knocked the wind right out of him.

"We were talking about the fight when you looked sick," she explained. She resumed making her thumb-circles. "Besides, you wouldn't have hit him unless he really upset you. It's harder for a stranger to do that than somebody you already know. And you said it goes back years. _Did_ he insult your mother?"

"No. Just me." He was suddenly very tired. Even if he could've looked her in the eyes, he wouldn't have had the energy to lift his head. "He never even met her."

"How do you know him?" she asked. It was the question he'd been dreading, but he couldn't refuse to answer it. That would only make her suspicious.

"He was captain of the _Bountiful_," he said. "That's my old ship."

"I know," she said, sounding mildly irritated. "You told me the day you proposed. I suppose he wasn't a very good captain?"

Anthony laughed, but it came out more like a hacking cough.

"No," he agreed, once he'd got his breath back. "He liked flogging sailors until there was no skin on their backs. I mean that he _enjoyed_ it. Some of them died. This Irishman, Patrick Doyle…he got it for falling asleep on watch. It was my first voyage and I couldn't believe it. Everybody knew what had happened, who was responsible for Doyle's death, but nobody said anything. And I was so _stupid_, Jo. I didn't know why, so I said something."

"And then you got it," she finished. And that was true—or, at least, as close to the truth as he could get—so he nodded. Presently, he felt her cool hand on his hair. "Oh, Anthony, I'm so sorry. You could have _died_."

"Yes," he said miserably. That was the truth, too.

"I'm glad you hit him first," she said. The cold fury in her voice made him look up. Her face was white and set, with her sweetly rounded chin lifted like a prizefighter's. "I hope you broke his face open. Blood for blood. What has he been charged with? Do you think he'll hang?"

"More likely than not," he replied quickly, avoiding the first question.

"Good," she said savagely, "although I'd rather they draw and quarter him. What kind of monster would hurt _you_?"

Despite their violence, her words touched him in some absurd way.

"Don't be too hard on him on that score," he told her. "He didn't know me that well. Why, he called me Harlowe when I ran into him."

It was a weak attempt at a joke, not to mention an ill-advised one. He felt sick as soon as he'd finished it. Johanna's alarmed expression let him know that he showed it.

"We'd better return to the parlor," she said. "Mrs. Bamford will be wondering where we are. Besides, you should have more tea. I hate that slush, but it always makes me feel better."

"It's something," he agreed. He slowly got to his feet. His knees were stiff from kneeling so long and there was dirt on his trouser legs. Smiling, Johanna reached out and brushed off the worst of it. "Thank you."

"You should have proposed again," she remarked. "I'm still disappointed that you didn't get on your knees the first time."

He couldn't help but smile at that, not least because she was joking about marriage.

"Johanna Barker," he started, "will you do me the great honor of—"

"You still aren't doing it right!" she protested. Her eyes gleamed with mischief. "You weren't even listening to me, were you?"

"I was," he said solemnly. "I just don't want to get my trousers dirty again."

She laughed and took his hand. Together, they headed back to the parlor.

_Author's Note: The very fact that they're joking about marriage tells me they're not ready! Nah, just kidding. Anyway, Anthony's thinking of "The Goose Girl." _


End file.
